Sometimes I look at you and wonder when
exactly, when
the beginning of your voice
started sounding like a scratched record

and at what point, exactly,
did your eyes change to being so dark
all of the time

I want to know at what point, then
had you learned to smile so factitiously
and **** in your gut
and pose at the right angle

I want to know, more than anything
when you started being so
miserable
all the time.

And the more I think about it,
about you,
existing,
the more terrified I feel.

I want to see what it's like to be good.
do you breathe easier?
Can you go through your day
without regrets?
Do you sleep better at night?
Is life easier? Is it better?
I wouldn't know what it's like to be good.
In order to be good,
you have to do things right
Something I'm miserable at, doing things right.
All my tests have A's but there is no homework.
another failed class.
I made her smile today, my mother screamed.
another fight.
A bright morning, and a dark night.
just another dose of black.
Just one more slash.
just one more drop of blood.
Just another sleepless night.
I'm afraid that while my life is mine,
I'll never be good.

We mustn't let her have a car.

She'll drive far away.

But I heard about the black ninety four accord,
I thought I'd name it Roomba.
And drive to her house,
or stop on the way home and sit under the stars.
I thought about how I'd sleep in it when I was tired,
eat in it when I'm hungry,
sit in it
maybe
with someone else.
Feed it,
clean it,
put nice things in it.
Drive to the beach.
Drive up the mountains.
Drive into the sky.
Drive into the ground.

Maybe he was right.
I mustn't have a car.

I'd drive far away.

The car is speeding.
We can make it in three -
no, two and a half.

She’s laughing and swerving the car,
left and right,
our tires humming warning.

The passenger is holding the door handle,
not quite used to her driving
but already broken in that strange way.

She turns to me, a contorted comfort
glad to be along for the ride
and her neck strains as she thinks,
not wanting to lose sight of my eyes.

I tell her that i’m sad, and that nothing is right,
and her reply would linger in my head like the smell
sitting flatly on my thumb and index,
fixed in a gun.

*We’re artists, you know?
And maybe, on some absolute level,
we don’t want to be happy.