There are days when my emotions
are a small gear being turned
in my brain by a small man
with quick ideas and a sole
purpose to manufacture
he goes away when
rage comes to stay,
the only true connection to
my nervous system
the most familiar face
I finally spoke to it out loud
I never learned love
without pain or sacrifice

I picture the small man
going on vacations
these days I feel
and feel and feel
I am convinced this is the
true nature of how
my brains favorite number is 2
always loving both extremes
boys who are mean and
girls that just do not need me
as much
as men need me
to be sweet and fill their shoes
all shoulder and still
nothing to cry on

we meet for the first time over and over
I never left, I sit
watching movies about us on
every park bench we claimed
something about capturing a moment
before it was gone
a quote from this film that would
rock me to sleep
a soft ******/****** assault lullaby
but in between scenes of pain
she is just inbetween
twirling through the surrealism
in ethereal fields, these truly are
The Lovely Bones
before I can remember
I remember
I've been eager to heal
like her
only women and
my mary jane
can make me feel anything
it is no coincidence my favorite color has been green
since birth because
I cannot accept coincidences
instead cling to my superpower
as if its not just a defense mechanism
but as if I have not moved whole houses on my own
I refuse to believe either side
of anything

these days without a dad are strange
in ways I wish I cared more about
things are suddenly easy to let go of
when you are tired and
you finally loosen your grip,
an ode to visceral reactions
things are simple to never need back
if nothing seems real
in the first place
it's never even that deep
just that picturing a future
seems more like
getting hopes up
there is an important distinction
to be separate from  "looking forward to something"
life grows disheartened when these two are confused
used too closely to tell
is this realism? or a ****** distraction
from the fact that
I wouldn't mind dying

I play house wife
for a place to rest my head
just another hole in the wall
that's not how the song goes
a rich friend wants to die
and the world wants to **** us
heightened magical beliefs when
everyone is afraid
everything that seemed
unreal is familiar
it is coming to life today
to take us away
or not but either way
I am on my last layer
the gas station pit stop
just before ****** boot to floor
no outlet sign
doesn't mean stop
because its been "**** the cops!"
**** the clock
and all things that **** people who
don't want to die
this parallel told me
"run, get out"
yesterday, or sometime ago
you know how similars confuse me
gasping for purified air
with the smell of death stuck to my hair
and I ******* swear
I'm getting out of here

******* at the funeral
poison women aching in their parallel
they drink until Juliet is dead
or until in their head too
it is clear
free of fear and recalling
this was always supposed to be a tragedy
______________

no left or right turn
changes that everything, even love
begins and ends with some type of poison
the slowly dripping IV type
or
a sudden break check
dash to face type of poison

the Juliets' love only exists on one page
allowed to live if the real goal
is to die
smoke breaks, goodbyes
the ever too consistent "I'll see you arounds"
that is the point of a tragedy
it gets to claim the reason for existing
and the entire existence itself

Juliet drinks the poison every night
even after the man in the hole warned me
her love feeds on the liver
while the others begin to fade out

today to reduce the friction ,
i imagined his hands were yours
his rapid gasps as your
slow sweet melody in my ear
a song familiar yet distant

it’s like the time we spent listening to loud muffled music through closed doors
we knew all the words but all we could hear was a thudding beat
and softened lyrics
or when the living room tv played an instrumental that i twirled to
in the kitchen over coffee
distant and soft
most things with you were like that
my version of you was like that

who you are to the world is an armor
a protected identity
all present and sharp
formed from your roots
spoken through a body canvas
and select dialogue
displayed in your recreations of
what you want so desperately to be
but underneath the armor is a warm bed
a dimly lit lamp covered by a bandana
a deep belly laugh with reservations
tears and fears and everything lovely

so when they ask me “do you miss him”
i will gently answer “no”
for one simple reason that
the “him” i loved died when he gave me a last distant and soft goodbye

they say time heals
but every day without you
a piece of me flakes off
i’m dead skin
an ***** once used for protection
now purposeless
sometimes floating through the air
sometimes intertwined in dust bunnies
but always still dead