you say It’s not all the same
and i’m paralyzed
What.  I want to fix it"
but there is no kicking
because broken things don’t
move so easily.  anymore.
circular arguments
(not to be confused with
logic) wrap fishing line around
my fetal knees and
What* is your bullet/
flaccid arrow/
boomer-anger.
and either I’m diabetic or
your insecurity ankle bracelet
tightens.
and the key
The key.

You know when you’re like
What the **** am I doing
But you still do it?
That’s me; doing stupid ****.
My back building a wall to her
In bed when I just got TOLD
That *** again would have made the night
Perfect—so it wasn’t.
Me with a glass of wine like ibuprofen
And tortilla chips for xanax
At 171.8 which is unacceptable for a runner.
Doing stupid **** like echoing I love you
Because if you don’t say it back
You don’t mean it—which is bull.
Somehow becoming OK with
Saying things like I’ll get in trouble.

I am assuming from here on out
That there is nothing I can do
But laugh off your expectations.
The real world is seeping in
The cracks; Mediocrity is success.
It’s a strange thing to expect failure
And a stranger thing to stay
When disappointment is the status quo,
Because roses and parades and names in the clouds
Would end with a why-didn’t-you.
And roses would be the wrong color.
And the parade would be selfish.
And the name in the cloud should have included
A heart, not just letters.
Because, rote or not, if “I love you” isn’t echoed,
It’s not real.