HPS Washout

a poem

It is my birthday. I am a moth 
stuck under a street lamp again, 
catching my wings on shards of light. 
 
The midnight stars should guide me but 
I am so disoriented by the tinnitus  
of a bad idea, I wasn't supposed to survive 
  
this long, the life span of a moth 
only some months, just enough to dine 
and dash from a closet of wool delicacies 
 
to an open window, a torn screen slider; 
but somehow another year older 
I fumble around all the fluorescents. 
 
They don't get it. 
I was never in love with the glow. 
A flame burns me up all the same 
 
my instincts just demand 
the North star will be illuminated 
from behind, if only I 
 
could figure out how to turn my back 
could follow something other than my heart,
to shade out the thousand suns 
 
this city sky line is dotted with. 
Oil drops all blown out of proportion. 
I can still smell you on the wind 
 
with a yellow cake and some candles 
I just don't know which way 
to turn to turn to turn could you maybe 
 
call me at a kilohertz that doesn't hurt, 
the way a bad idea tears up the knees 
the way a street lamp bulb reaches 840°