Writing as a Crutch

I wish my hands weren't so skilled
at opening beers on kitchen counters
on lighters
my tongue so silver
whispering in the ear of you
but never the words “I love you”.

I'll wake up hung over
on a Wednesday
again.

And my sheets are knots
at our feet—
a bed that will go unmade
sleep that will never come before midnight.

My lungs
they spasm
and whine

for conversations beyond the mundane.

But these fingers
that chicken-pick words
are filled with fever
and this playlist is good,

so I claim disability

with writing as a crutch.

Photo by billow926 on Unsplash ‍