clocks don't work on sunday mornings:

I open my eyes 
to light 
that bursts through glass 

shattering 
window panes and 
waterfalls 

of blonde hair 
sewn into my 
eyelashes 

I open my eyes 
to fabric suffocating 
last nights dreams 
and memories made of 
silk and feathers 

last night I turned to water 
and sunk into the corners 
of my bedframe
where the dust bunnies meet 

to discuss 
the secrets shoved under 
my dresser 

I open my eyes 
made of paper 
prone to tearing 

up and 
drip dropping 
on the cicadas 
that so carefully 

sit on the underside 
of my fan blades 
dreaming of upside down coffee tables 

singing 
radio static 
into my quiet ears 

twisting me into
simple chaos 

awake