I have nightmares
In which I do the same thing over and over.
My love affair with the regular does not extend
To monotony.

Gravity, friction, and weight have given up the ghost.
The allies have fallen, the battle fields lie thick with carpets
Of bandages and uniforms.
All that remains is truth, and even that is of an indescribable timbre
Undiscovered between uncut pages.

First, the pink lace shirt
chuckles at his drum beats then
taps out her own. So
Bold, no glance is stolen. Eyes
rounder than globes, royal blue.

I am not
I am not
I am not
I am not
I am not ready for the next phase of life
In which my resentments will need to be justified
And yes, sometimes I put in all the effort I can going in
the wrong direction.
I am not quite ready to accept that there will always be
Someone better because by jove, if my storybooks and
TV shows have taught me anything, it is that everyone
Is different (and with a limited number of capable people
in the world in any given age, one of them HAS to be
better than everyone).
I don’t know if I can handle maturity and responsibility
And yes, not all adults do, but those are the least desirable kind.
I don’t think I will ever be able to comprehend or
accept the fact that from here on out, everything
Every single thing will be different than what it has been before.
I can’t go back to being a child playing, blissfully unawares, on a playground
I will only continue to grow, and never
Be the me that I used to be.

Everything that you dream about in those playground days
Becomes less tantalizing the closer it comes to reality.
I will never live in my parent’s house (in this way) again
I will never feel the way I do when I roam Rockville again
I will never walk through the halls of my high school the way I do now
Never have the same schedule, the same comfort
Again. My worry I suppose is not with the void itself—
More of a concern that it will not be
filled with anything as pure or delightful or
Lovely as youth.

For the first time, the viewfinder fails to lose your years—  
It kisses collapsed jowls, coaxes wire from your scalp,
Lauds that torn ear (which I swear is lower than before).

Each time you turn your head, my disgust at your denouement
Bows to disgust at my revulsion.
(By the time I finish my Flux Capacitor it will be too late and
You are already paying for my lethargy.)

Cactus coughs clamber out of your throat.
I close my eyes and you sigh and
I breathe in, involuntarily.
Words coarsen my throat and you and I and even our resident quarks know that you will die.

You Virago of new morning
Aphrodite of the last minutes afternoon
You escape from the hood
Rising as only a waver in the air,
It is impossible to tell when you have gone.
I can only hope that you have come into me.
Selah.

I found a crumbling ladies’ fan beneath my dresser
It does not belong to me
The edge is very sharp, I could use it to
Cut your wrist and cool myself with
Whatever is in your veins.
It would not look like blood
I feel like you are full of chilled soup
It’s a wonder that you are not yet crumbling or
Underneath my dresser.