i started driving with my
left leg perched up on the driver's seat
again. sometimes i will sing if i feel like
it and if not, i still think about how i could crash
into anything if i really wanted, if i actually
cared to, but why bother if the song is good enough?

most of the time, the song is fine.

i'm vaguely in tune with how
my dominate foot controls the machine
now. and how i am really in control now. and how
i will no longer be the passenger in the seat,
and i will no longer allow myself to live at the
mercy of someone else’s demands now.
i think i feel okay now.

and most of the time,
the song is fine.

i do a little dance
with guilt
during the day,
and then i
let anger **** me at night.

i try to feel safer about my whereabouts
whenever i'm alone
ever since the security guard at the club
stopped me and asked me not once,
not twice, but four or five times
if i was carrying mace on me
and was astonished every time i
repeated the phrase “no!”
anxiously while he was checking my bag
upon entry.

because it's heavily implied that women can't exist
without some choice of weapon
against the type of men who want to ask
why we're not already defending ourselves
against them when they've established
their weird *** interest while conducting
a security check. i guess.

i think if i did in fact
have mace on me,
his face would have been the first
i'd  have maced.

so like, what flavor mace should i get, guys?

go ahead,
have another breakdown in the office bathroom and then
pretend like you’re having the time of
your life on the internet. think about how
it could be happening to some other girl
if not you, how “cool” you must be
to be able to keep it together.
(which really means stupid)

they'll all think, "wow he must
really be something special to have someone like her" or something shallow like that, something along those lines. something to make it feel just a bit worthwhile.

go ahead,
lose track of when those lines of performability blurred and the sustainability of it all started.

someone might ask me if i want another drink and i will no thank you, because he tells me it “runs in your family.”
but he’ll pour himself a night cap or five before bed or he’ll convince me after a set of repeated no’s to wash down a heavy handed cocktail or two that he made because he says he’s the best at home bartender we know and we are always at home.

i don’t touch the stuff anymore, i used to when i was brave. i used to be brave.

he said, “you should write more,
you should let me use your words.”
but my words can’t hold any meaning
other than the utter embarrassment of
who i was and how it’s consumed who i
used to be at the hands of someone who
i allowed to selfishly grasp me when i thought i couldn’t hold myself. i watched myself fall through his fingers, like empty promises and then get thrown against the wall just like all our
various household items i’ve seen him smash in the same way.

so he thinks i just have writer’s block. or at
least that’s just what i tell him. and
i try not to, but i can still hear his stupid distorted guitar tone humming, calling me a dumb **** from the other room.

sitting on s cameron waiting for the
light to turn,
waking up for the morning commute
just like that indie electronica group
said i would. thinking about the various
ways i’ll allow myself get taken
advantage of today.
the city smells like ****
and desperation. to be honest,
i think i fit right in.

i had a dog once
i think he still loves me
i used to kiss his nose
and take him for walks

when he got scared i held him in my arms
i squeezed him when he shivered
i remember his soft ears and whiskers
i think he still loves me

he is a good boy and i told him
everyday