The Empty Room

an empty room and I stare at the ceiling blank eyes and a blanker slate, my poker face arms spread over my head all I can see are whirring blades blurring into creamy paint and the small cracks in between the shadows in my chest, mahogany branching out their needles, ebony one pricks my eye red ink taints crisp alabaster damps it slow, slow, slow I exhale shaky, shaky, shaky heavy lids droop to a close and no one sees no one can.