In those relentless nights hiding
under blankets, I wait for feet to wear out.
I wait for all those words to drip
from the carcass of my mind.
In the half-read book on my nightstand,
I wait for the bear from hibernation, I wait
for the sting, which promises to be
my nightmare. In the midst of dirty dishes
on the counter, I wait, feeling the coolness
of the worn countertop beneath my hands.
I wait for peace from drowned sex. Amid
the fading pulse of mitochondria, I linger
in stillness, in the belief that someone
will remember me, I wait, waiting for these sores
to grind into constellations, waiting for my skin
to come off, unveiling a bright and polished new surface.
I wait to shimmer and light up rooms.
Laura Titzer is an avid tea drinker and camping enthusiast. She is a writer, a lover of story, and is constantly ablaze by the power of words and facilitation. She lives on the Coast Salish lands of Seattle, Washington. Her work has been published in Gastronomica, Invisible City, Pastel Pastoral, Streetcake, Gastropoda, Bureau of Complaints, and Kosmos, and is the author of No Table Too Small.