Soul Rooms

My partitioned selves drift in the rooms of Apt. 218.
I rewind a mixtape in my current room,
While down the hall, my childhood souls
Peek out occasionally to wave hello,
And up the hall are darkened bulbs and fear.

Bedtime Story

Months have creaked out of planks
into weathered knots worn slack ’round the mast
out of water skins poured empty
into fish nets dried stuffed.
The wind that claws my matted white hair
does naught to untangle the many suns
satisfied to rustle at my haggard tunic.