Cotton Candy

The ceiling fan that I don't have
is sh-sh-shushing confessions from
a tired-down roof.
The textures used to scare me,
as a small child,
and I'd paint pictures of them on the backs of my hands,
retracing spider webs and veins.
A thousand poetic nothings collect,
pooling at the base of a sheet of hate;
reflections make the circus even grander,
and I'm glad to see it unfold.
I count the sheep the jump the blades
of the whirling cosmos way up high,
and press the beads of memory
a little deeper into my skull
because I'm not bleeding out my eyes yet.
Grotesque, isn't it?