lovesick

If I vomit
and kill the bird
in babyblue
or fit my head comfortably 
beside a stud,

could I learn which
metaphysical theory I need to
offend for this to
cleanse its hands of me?

I haven’t known a 
thought
since she last said my name.
They’re all busy bouncing around consonants 
of hazel blue and grey to be of any use to me. 

Fire is far hotter when it’s 
been simmering 
in mental turmoils and romantic delusion 
whose solutions are hidden in the walls.

I’ll scoop out my eyes and lose my hair 
to become a reflection of something to
take cover from.
I’ve heard a hollow husk of man and bone
can blend in quite well among crowds.

How am I to think when
I have nothing to give?
Books, dull nails, a sloppy letter, 
a broken pen under a box of used tissues and hot sauce.
Find it in the drawer.
Send it back to the boy who’s scooping his eyes out and losing hair.
Add a stamp or two.
Cellophane tape and scissors to cope.