“You have a kind of sick desperation in your laugh.” – Tyler Durden, Fight Club




You have a kind of sick                                                             ­                                       
desperation in your laugh.
You always think of others.
They never do,
                          on your behalf.

He’s there        you’re him.
You’re here      he’s you.
He says     he’s     Tyler.
And you are?
                   Who?


Clinging to the manic sense
you get when you’re a l o n e .
String up the failing,
                                     f
                                       a
                                          l
                   ­                         l
                                              i
                ­                                n
                               ­                   g
                                                      words,
   ­      you feel you must atone.

Who are you really?
Slipping
    f   l   a  i l i n    g
unmissed and left to burn.
Black and darkened
Your heart unharkened
The page is left,

                            unturned.

A woman who leaves her children isn’t a mother but a donor,
   egg loaner.

She walked away from us, no longer mother,
  or friend.
     or other.

She never wanted us. Not me, not my brother.
And,
    to be honest,

if I saw her today walking next to a stranger.

I wouldn’t tell one from the other.

Ms. Hansen sits alone
her dusty pink dress starting to wrinkle
She hungers for someone
anyone
to open her up and love her
or use her

He would extend one claw
Rough and scarred
           chewed nails
She’d take it
perfectly manicured
his tongue would taste of spiteful intent  
and smoke  

The air stinks jovial
Alcohol scalds tongues
She kills brain cells
Only an observer  

                     watching others picked
          skirts twirling
dancing

an eternal wall flower