The Saint

The saint of my dilated pupils

Sits in the ever contracting cave of darkness

And worships the dim lighting above the sink

Smoke alarms don’t bother the slumber sum pupils in their rooms

Climbing floor after floor

Screaming and thumping dorms

Walking up and skittering down

Like the dots on the mirror that I stare into, at 2 a.m

Trying to find something new

Maybe a wrinkle or another white hair

And I’m barely 19.

The leaks from the pipes pool at my feet

And I’m like a little frog in monsoon

Breathing through my skin in the shower

And counting beauty marks on my body

As if I am a spotted cheetah.

My roommate tells me to sleep the smoke off

But the contents of my mug

Cause the saint to escape from my eyes

And all I am left with are

Dark caves instead of eyes.