Loser

Cellophane wrap or sealed pack or paper bag: clutch me. Try not to drop me.

It, this, crept like damp from the doorway until there was mould along the skirting.

I consciously partook in phone calls and friendings and 56,000 FB messages.

A lie would be I was absent for it. I was absent very little of it.

And now, history book months later, all I want is that wheezing breath next to me.

Hearts suck. Seriously. I mean.

hate you

nevergoingtochange (said like it’s one word)

I phone you back because we’re never done, especially when we say we are, which is why every goodbye’s thirty minutes long; it’s impossible to package us neatly up, like a suctioned haggis, metal ties on the end to keep fresh.

I can’t compile us like an essay collection or tea set for the charity. As a Collected Works we’d maybe make sense, and we’re not nonsensical now, only, there’s always more, especially when we out loud state there won’t be.

We plan Thanksgiving in September, though you hate celebration as much as existentialism, which you hardly hate at all, just you’re not a fan of the quivering limbo it tram seat sits you in, and you can’t get off between stops. Uncertainty’s the kicker.

You text me back when the call’s missed and the call ends more than once, and four hours feels like six minutes, and I know it’s never over: I know it never is.

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I’m a Spy (NaPoWriMo #12)

They claim fraud but it’s not
I saw you cry your make-up off
still in your slippers, robe
asking your sister how to feel
when you’re married

In your heart isn’t fraud
but Jack’s clogging ventricles
bubblegum
Tom’s can’t-do attitude
absinthe, Patrón
Terry’s seven night drinks
Ben Affleck
and your husband’s refusal
to look at you

To hold séances with you
compromise on restaurants
or art
and who’s funnier:
Owen Wilson, Adam Sandler?
And who’s at fault here.
secret mission

Say I’ve Crossed A (NaPoWriMo #6)

The playback footage of five years
six ago
reminds me and I ask you
interloper
documentary documenter
if he’s changed.

You say, “I don’t know, Pam.
You all have, I guess.”
I’m trapped in pull-back moments
of what was
feel every culpable inched nerve
of almost.

Tarantino in that video shop job
each tutorial second
of must-watch
pre-empts a connoisseurial grab
and you’re ready to take now
Brian.
crossed

Miami (NaPoWriMo #1)

I’ll turn my hand to
anything.
Veterinary college, marriage,
Coco Pop cake baking.
The ring
is a nail’s width,
slides, so the underside
of my hand’s scratched.
One month
a handful of teeth
courtside seats
and the American dream:
stage Mom,
pension by your forties.

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