Lately.

I would rather seek contentment than
to live with cheap thrills. On an every day basis
I pray to you, to whoever will lend me their ears,
and fill my undying need for superstition.

I chant to you routinely in my room.
I could call you just the same,
but instead I pace and draw your name
through the condensation forming in my shower.

These rituals don’t mean a damn thing
to anyone, but the proof that I’m mad,
and I prove to you that I am still stuck
over and under in a dirty washing machine.

I would love to be clean.