Every corner has remnants of you
The ghosts of tape and laughter and tears
Of breakfasts and jeopardy.
And yes.
I know.
One day I’ll be okay.
But for now
It hurts
To watch a decade disappear
As you carry on
Like I never existed.

I had forgotten
The **** steam from a sewer grate
Nature’s heat lamp
And the regulars you see
When you’re walking the streets
And I hope they can find a clean mattress.

I don’t have time
For this young man’s disease
They told me it was Type II, at first.
“The good one.”
The “one for fat people.”
Medical jargon.

Not even three months later.
“Your body is tearing itself apart.”

Type 1.
A1c.
Glucose monitor.
Metformin.
Spironolactone.
Crying.
Writing down numbers.
Going to doctors.
And a ***** on the finger
Two times a day.

And if that ***** is a little high, a little low, and not juuuuust right,
I take a pill.
And I turn a dial.
And I stick a needle in the part of my body I never want to pay attention to:
The fatty part.
And my mom calls me worried every day.


Counting carbs instead of calories
And trying to wake up early to do a half hour of yoga before life keeps spinning and spinning.
Trying to “meal prep.”
I rarely succeed.

I don’t usually tell the truth….
I’m doing better.
But Sometimes I forget on purpose.
Because it’s annoying.
And I’m tired.
And then I’m shaking
And then I’m hungry
And then I eat too much
And then I feel like ****
And then I have to walk
And then I run out of time
And then
And then
And then
And then
And if I could go back
And do it again
I’d probably eat all those fries

I’d like to tell future me that their success was a long time coming.

I’d like to tell past me to chill the **** out for a moment.

I’d like to tell now me that this wasn’t my fault.
Even if I don’t know if I believe that.

I know.
I should be excited
To open this play
Tomorrow.
But I still can’t help
But feel like an outsider
And I just kind of want to sit home.

Slowly and sweetly, the woodpecker sighs
And a drip drip dripping comes from the blues in your eyes
The whisk whisk whisking of a whiskey night out
Faint honeysuckle kisses, gone 20 miles south
"I'll save you" she whispers, as sweet as can be.
And flies away.




Next time.

The table is set for two, but nobody is here.
Empty plates and glasses half filled with orange juice,
A napkin,
Littered on the hardwood floor,
Beckoning you to the kitchen.
That corner is treacherous
You climb over the fridge that’s been knocked in your way
And there’s a bird.
Bleeding from its eye
Covered in *****.
A bottle of tums half chewed in the sink.

That **** cat.

Big fat raindrops feed the flower design on my jacket.
And while I love these summer rains
(With their temperature shifts and chances for quiet contemplation)
I really wish I brought an umbrella with me
When I decided to walk out the door this morning.
Because now I look like a cat
Who wants to **** the owner
Who tried to give that cat a bath.

You know, it's funny how a person can change their style and lose their grace,
They drop their old familiar face and zip a new one back on.

But the zipper is obvious
Nothing but cartoon character on your T.V. set.
Killing children's dreams and wishing upon a star.

All mixed up and upside down, but the puzzle piece was right where you left it. The picture is complete.
I mean.
It looks complete.

The salamander sitting on your windowsill crawls in and out of sight until he sets up camp in your bed and doesn't move for another three years.
Even after you call exterminators, the ******* thing won't die.

You close your eyes to try to run, but your friend has been hiding behind the curtains,
Waiting for your sign so they can escape too.

The puzzle smashes to the floor,
Something rolls under the bed,
The salamander attaches itself to your ear,
A child unzips your costumes and exposes you for the regular human you are.
They scream.

Then everything is black and there's nothing but your breathing in the night.

And you wake up.
Well.
Then you try to wake up.
Then you lay there.

A sharp pin in your side....
Huh.
There's that missing piece.

You wake up.

There is a woman,
Covered entirely in fur,
Staring at me as I skip on by.
She's been there for, 10, 20, 40 years,
Watching.
Watching her corner parks turn into gas stations
And watching me walk.
And sometimes I stop.
And I stare.
And it takes everything in my body not to throw a brick through the window and take her for my wall.
And I wonder
How on earth is she still there
Beautiful
Poised
With nothing but dust covering her smile.
Because I can't be the first person to have wanted her like that.
I look.
Like a lost museum patron.
And then I keep walking.
Because most things
And all people
Are meant to stay beautiful.
And untouched.
Unless they ask you.
Or you own it.

I.
I just.
I don't know.
I don't know why...
I don't know why...
I don't know why things aren't better.
I don't know what makes a person........
I don't know what makes a person pick up a....
And hurt a....
And **** a...
I just...
I don't know.
I'm sorry.
I just...
I don't know.

I got them broken down, whiskey blood, drank too much ****** beer and didn't sleep enough, tumbleweave, cigarette ****, city wide blues.

And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and the blood and the black and the birds and the gags and the stew and the stewing and the hate and the cries and the wood and the prince and the tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and today.
Curtain

I walked up broad street
With my skirt tucked into my pants
And a kind stranger told me about it
And now I can't stop checking my ****.