So this is how it is.
What life has become,
a fleeting chase for
the next **** and
the next buzz.

What a long way
we've come from
our childhood dreams
of space voyages,
and gunfights.
Presidencies and
marriage.

You told me once,
"Sometimes when you
fall, you fly."
I didn't believe you
at the time,
because it's such
an awful thing to
fall. Such an awful
thing.

And to fly? To soar
above the clouds like
a bird? How unnatural
and silly. But you told
me once, "Everything
changes and nothing
is truly lost."
And, I'm no longer
afraid to fly.

I'm scribbling little notes
on the back of my hand
to show you that I'm not
the person you traded
kisses like punches in the
front seat of your car. Breathing
your name in a cloud of ink
that eats through this paper
like a thousand lies through my soul.

I'm not the same person
you traded punches like
kisses with in the front seat
of your car. I'm not.

I steal pieces of your
character like a teenager
steals music from the Internet.
A victimless crime. "Just
trying it out, I'll buy it,
if I like it." Sliding it
into my ears and straight
into my brain. I turn the
idiosyncrasies that belong to
you and you alone, into joint
property whether you want to
or not.

Goosebumps crawl across my skin
and the hairs on the back of
my neck and arms stand straight up.
There's a hole in the pit of my
stomach that's being filled with bile,
and **** and vinegar, transforming
myself into a hate-spewing,
relationship-destroying monster.
It's been this way, ever since
you gave me up.

Electrocution: n. killing by electric shock.

Lightning strikes and I'm alone again.
fingers tracing scalp like scars.
Breath short and sour like so many
worried words and kneejerk reactions.

Finger in the socket and I'm
laughing a laugh that only
I can hear.
Smiling a smile that I used to
only show to one other.

Toaster in the bathtub and
I'm cast aside, seperated by
mistakes I made and words
"I don't love
you
anymore"

Sometimes I catch myself wondering
if you still want to be a doctor.
If you're still stuffing change into
that dollar store doctor's set,
the clatter of quarters on plastic
that used to make me smile like
a woman with child.
Sometimes, I catch myself wondering
Only sometimes though.