Introjection

I began each day as if it were a reflection
of all the desire that has passed before [ ].
Which is to say I keep falling asleep
in my chair before noon––not even
the sunlight wanted me.
How have I not given everything to be
resting in your arms again, a chirpless
bird warmed against your effervescent charm?
Listen, I’ve been falling asleep forever now,
and falling, and falling, and falling.
How much further to fall into the dusk
cast by the walls I use to keep out me?
It’s just a loveseat, you know. I know.
I cannot write my way to revelation, so long as I
make it synonymous with justice.
A homophobic hookup once held me softer
than your sweet words
consoling someone I wish I was. Go ahead.
Paint me over with the most oblique, the most.
Speckle me in with glistening “gorgeous,”
chamomile “kind,” frothéd “funny…” until you can
see everything you need to be,
yourself, in the very bristle of my skin, the
croak of my voice, the wanton of my existence.
I will do my duty.

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Sam Canney is facilitator of creative consciousness. Originally from a small conservative town in North Carolina, he now resides in Brooklyn, NY workshopping with Brooklyn Poets and The Sadagat School of Motion and Text. His works include poetry in On-the-High Literary Journal, Sunday Mornings at the River, and the forthcoming issue of Vocivia Magazine. Twitter: @HomoPhilisoph
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