There will be a day
you won't find one
thing about me you like.

Then you'll be free -
and guilt will never feel
so soft and supple.

Twisted elbows at odd
angles pushed through
open windows:

ugliness extends

through porous passages

assuaging emptiness.

But I don't look
at the mess.

I just want to know
who left the window
open again.

The draft is consuming.