there are blinds over the windows now.

there was that one night, which,
to the tunes of my men at 2am,
i crept and toed down the stairs—
barefoot
—and retrieved my sanity in the form
of a room with its threadbare curtains
blowing freely in the wind.
dirt tracks on the ground,
a fallen plant,
and the lit canvas flashing like
a shooting star.
make a wish:

i wish this moment lasted forever.
i wish this moment never fucking happened.
i wish that, from the moment i left my room, time had wound itself some hundred days forward.
i wish that flowers were real enough to take me by my lungs and hold me until i wilted.
i wish that rib cages were actually cages so that i could lock us up and live off of us forever.
i wish i had the key to that cage.
i wish that the prison of my body set itself on fire.
i wish.

sometimes shooting stars are illusions
but the wishes all the same;
and, sometimes, the shooting stars are real
and the wishes are where they fall (nowhere)
;
sometimes, neither is true,
and your curtains were never shooting stars,
they were blades
and my wishes never came true
because i never wanted them to be.
but nevertheless i find myself with the truth:

there are blinds over the windows now.