untitled poem on Those Things That Keep Me Bound To Myself

my memories live in my bedsheets 
sticky and heavy and warm in the mornings 
i don’t feel proud of it 
i don’t wash my sheets frequently enough 
i sleep nude 
i wake up ashamed when i remember that there are other rooms beyond my walls 
and 
that 
there always will be

~~~

if you would like to know, 
a delicate grey spider sits perched by day 
in my bedroom ceiling corner 
with frozen eyes of a statue. waiting 
for night to emerge, so that she may continue Her Work:
of My Entanglement.
if you would like to know,  
this Entanglement is of the kind (you may be familiar) 
that pulses with a glow in Every darkness. it is
the fate that remains bound with the waxing and waning of the moon. it is 
my Web of Echoes, mocking me,
unrelentlessly like the sea's (eternal) heaving swells 
and 
yet 
each evening, i lather myself in perfumes and oils in preparation for 
(once again this time) 
a meeting; for
(once again this time)
a kiss of indignity.

because, you see, 
despite it all i still always choose to disrobe before my slumber. 

(have you noticed yet that you feel most alive only when you are Exposed?)