Every night,

The Idol in my head

and I

fight.

9 yellow moons

die

and resurrect themselves

and smile

Bud like Bruises

Open up

shop on my chin.

Blood vessels burst,

paint

a van Gogh

in the canvas

of the whites of my eye.

I crack a rib

I crack two

Alright

I crack quite a few.

It hides

making tents

of my bed clothes.

I wander from

pillow to post

pillar and bed

itching

for the next round of hurt.