The Printer and My Thoughts

Emma Austin

Sometimes when the printer runs out of ink

and it’s dry on my fingers like smoke from a fire

I coax it in my palm, feel the ember of a darkness

brewing like the thoughts that come into my mind.

I kiss the frail hardware of its side

watching the ink bleed gray.

It’s double vision and it’s uncentered

sometimes I think I will melt,

watch it spit out the hurt

a melted candle of my worst

regrets a waxy and sticky

compromise.

It’s 2 am, I’m printing.

Here the beep is a ring

smelted like the wax warmer

you left on too long.

It’s days like this the rooms are

burning hot from overuse.

I asked you to stay,

even as my brain was firing

at the rate of that 100th page

too slow—too much here.

I ask it not to hurt

but the display’s not off.

Seems never to be.

I want it to break. I will it to break

caressing it’s dulling sides

and buy it the best new brands of ink

wish that one day it will print less.

Maybe something that is harmless,

only words left to a page.