Metaphors

Lucky shit, I am,
for getting lucky.
I feel sick–

these vertigoes
are tunnels of skin;

a serpent’s sheath
that I might escape,

unchanged,
until the next shedding.

A clock is chiming: 3 AM.
Insomnia is a meat-grinder,

shredding my body. See the holes
it creates? Listen to what falls

through them: hitting the pavement,
the ping of my self emptying

sounds like the quiet crunch
of cicadas’ shells leaving trees,

their essence–
their bodies–
long gone.


Matthew Morley holds a BA in History and English: Creative Writing from DePaul University.


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