Synesthesia

I’ll lift the oil of your hands
From every cup and wall
The craters of your presence
Will linger through it all
The way you warped the cellophane
Outside my bedroom door
My closet smells of cigarettes
Notes I’ve hidden in the floor
Dead bugs left on the windowsill
Among your brown beer glass
I told them all my secrets
About Jesus in the grass
About the colors that come to me
When I think of you
Devil illness that I’m scared of
The yellow and the blue
The gold and silver speak to me
The purple falls in line
The vibes puff me out and then implode
Take me over all the time
I like to think it’s god
But I’m scared it’s the demonic
The voices that we saw
How our colors taste harmonic
How metal screams in pain
And paper cries in spite

How my mind is playing suicide

And comes alive at night