If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

I’ve been around long enough
to know these wounds don’t heal.
I will wake up tomorrow
and put down half a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide,
hoping the void inside
my chest won’t get infected.
This ribcage is missing
more than just bones.
The black hole I met
in my living room
decided to stay for dinner.
He said you’re doing great.
I poured another glass
of regret and told him
that’s ironic.
I’ve realized this is just what
“okay” has become;
fists embedded in sheetrock promises,
sitting alone in the rooms where
everyone told me they would stay.