Deserving

In padded silence, I splay,
staring up into
star-spattered
darkness.

Here, In a
moth-feathered loft, I flay
my skin with blunted
fingertips.

Let me shatter
this slanted glass
that separates me
from nothing.

Let the dark
digest my heart,
an organ sordid,
fetid, thumping.

Laughter floats
through plywood floors,
and I curl
towards the boister
of loving.

Longing for touch,
longing for light,
but deserving
of inky
smothering.