darling: poems by colleen cosette goodman

the inherent loneliness of a one-person hotel room

DC is orange at night. The curtains hang long and low to the beige floor. It is in this room I miss someone, and envelop myself in white duvets holding the hairs of other people.
The claw of loneliness deep into my chest, like someone taking their clean and thin fingers and prying my heart out, sinews still stuck.
My heart is the only thing I have for myself besides my body, something I try to hold onto with all my might.
I watch it float over me, blood slick on the duvet cover.
Girls like me get their hearts stolen far too quick.