Seventy-seven. Sea creatures turning into monsters turning into buildings.

I've made more drawings
in the last two weeks
than I did in the entirety
of our first year together.
All of it is disgustingly
bittersweet:
The sound of bathwater,
the lack of air conditioning,
the bowl of rotting fruit
positioned in the exact center
of the kitchen table,
and everything
that I no longer believe in.

It's lonely, living here.
I have my cat and two-dozen
sketchbooks, and he wakes me
with a hand on my thigh
when I'm whimpering in nightmares,
but on any given day
I am a solitary creature,
with or without choice.
I keep my shoes in a pile
in a separate bedroom
because you can never have
too many immediately accessible things
to walk away on.