I feel like
I may be
misremembering
some important line
in the history of
words, words, words,
maybe it was
something about
breaking stones?
In any case,
if you’re gonna
fuck with me,
at least
have the
uncommon
courtesy to
use your dick.
Chance
Give me
a chance,
just one more
chance,
I’ll show you
that I’m
more than sweetness
and
less than sass.
I’ll make no promises
as I wrap you
in my harms and
hold you close.
Temporary insanity
I am
undefinable
in my arts
and
indefatigable
in my starts,
I remember
thinking
that I’d make
a new memory
in the room
with the dolphins
as I twitched
uncontrollably
and they preyed
unabashedly
in an
exorcize
in
futility
when I’d
much rather
be at home
again
working
on an
exercise
in
fertility.
At me
You claim
they are hidden,
small,
and squinty.
But your eyes
are what
embody you.
Those hazel orbs
hold all your sass
and all your sweetness,
and I
cherish nothing
more than
seeing them
staring
back at me.
Heat Death
Any moment
not wrapped
in your arms,
tasting your lips,
is just a waste
of the time
that I spend
slipping towards
oblivion
waiting for the
inevitable
heat death
of the universe.
Sobriety
My gums
buzz numbly
as the rum tingles.
I can taste bile
rising in the
back of my throat.
There’s no
real reason
for this,
but I do know
that my sobriety
doesn’t want to be found,
so she’ll be hiding
real well at the
bottom of this bottle.
On fire
The validity
of your opinions
is called
into
question
when you let your
twisted backwards bigotry
show through the cracks
of your
politically correct mask.
I see hate in your eyes,
hidden behind a sheen
of what you call
loving your neighbor.
I’d have real strong feelings
about being your neighbor,
it’s the kind of hate
that wouldn’t do the courtesy
of pissing on you
when you’re on fire.
Cheese Whistles
What a
serious case
of the cheese whistles,
I flirt with the
paint girl at lowes.
I made her night,
she made me question.
I suggest to my husband
that she might be a lesbian,
and he says
“because she’s crafty
and works at a hardware store?
And I’m the racist one?”
Uhaul
You with your
weaponized laughs
and mechanized grins,
me with
enough issues
to pack into suitcases
and fill a uhaul
to the brim,
together we do a
Frankenstein waltz.
Despite your training,
you listen less than talk,
judge more than watch
and I with my lack of experience
and skewed introspection,
I take your words
at two face value.
I can’t quite
declare this
relationship
nontoxic,
yet my actions
make me the bad guy
in this
dystopian
existential
drama.
Schemes and irony
So, despite repeat conversations with my treatment team, my husband has done a piss poor job locking up guns. The shotguns are off the wall, sure, but now they’re just in cases on the floor. Because, godammit, when I want to blow the top of my skull off, I will surely be vexed by zippers!
Good thing I’d rather not use a shotgun anyways, but I’ve got a trick.
I’ve manufactured a state of increased poverty that prevents me from having the petty cash and gasoline to be able to go buy ammo. I bought a new car. A new plasma cutter. Toys to keep me occupied, hopeful, and strapped.
I do this because I know a great many people that would be mightily pissed at me if I were to scratch that itch inside my skull. For mysterious reasons, they like me better alive.
I must be prettier with my eyestalks still on the inside. Can’t think of any other viable reasons.
But, as a result of my scheme, I am consistently too poor to do things like hang out shopping, get dinner, etc. So I get to watch the people who love me get more agitated with my presence.
It’s a kind of silent irony.
The kind I’ll never mention.
Rexicorn 