I have this dysfunctional need to tell you that I love you, and I know the cure
But I like to think these robot arms would start working again if you would just say you loved me back
But I know that I tied myself to this invisible chair, so how can words do anything to cut this rope the way you cut me
I also have this dysfunctional need for Dr. Pepper
Because I heard that cola products can take the rust off of these dysfunctional arms as well; the only problem is I’m treating just one symptom of a widespread disease
And the root of the disease, everything that’s wrong with me?
I went to the chiropractor today
And he told me I’m allergic to myself, and in saying that I know he means I’m allergic to every single thing I took into my body that made me who I am
Well
That includes you

everyone should be more like flowers because flowers only open up when the sun shines-
they only absorb light

in a room full of peacocks
i am now an ostrich
and i don't know if any of you know how it feels to be a splash of grey in a room full of brilliant blues and greens
it's like being a lonely, pitiful cloud against a blue sky with leafy trim
maybe i have my head in the sand because i don't want to be shallow
but you'd be right if you guessed it's because i actually don't want to be seen when my face looks like this
which is such a cowardly thing to do
(i really shouldn't care)
i read Journey to the Center of the Earth in middle school,
and the only thing i remember is that it was the volcanoes that erupted (like the hives that erupted across my face this past week) that led them to find it-
the heart of life and natural beauty; more breathtaking than the flawless plumage of the peacocks

you wrote a poem once about how i was a flower and you were a monster and you dropped your grape juice on my white peddles
you spelled petals wrong
and that bothered me
but the idea that i was beautiful enough to be somebody's muse
well
i was willing to overlook the fact that you weren't good with hearts, so of course your faults with words meant very little to me
i dreamed in purple once
and grape was the taste on my tongue when i woke, which was silly
because your poem didn't really say anything about knocking a glass onto me like a paperweight to watch me suffocate as its juicy contents stained me violet
i just thought it sounded lovelier as a white lie
like you didn't mean to hurt me and it was just an accident

you told me later you made me a flower because they are at the mercy of whoever plucks them from the garden
and that's when i knew that you knew you had bruised me purple on purpose
i just don't like to think about the part where you are a monster

i don't know how to shape my eyebrows
and that concerns me just a little
because i don't want you to think i'm surprised tomorrow when i run into you after your show
maybe i'll shave my head like people shave ice so i will look cool and calm and collected
maybe my hair will be blueberry flavored and your face will reflect the brain freeze you'll have at the sight of me
nah

because the thing is
i'm a blender that's always plugged in
and you're the only one who can mix me up so much that all the flavors run together and i don't even know what to feel anymore
so i'll expect that tomorrow
the way people expect childbirth to be the most painful thing in the world
though
i don't think anything could amount to the pain of this band-aid being ripped off
over
and over
and over again

it took me nineteen years to realize that sometimes
you are the five year old child with sixty cents of hard earned pennies in your sweaty hand
and even though you smashed your piggy bank and clenched your fist around your life earnings
and counted it out loud at the register one at a time
that little red bike with the horn isn't meant for you
because sixty cents can't buy love
and all of the tears in the world will never change the fact that every particle of your being wasn't enough for a soul like his

all artists want is to create something beautiful
so we created love
we scooped out handfuls of the sun and swallowed them like lemon sorbet ice cream
and the ends of our fingers glowed like E.T. because we knew that home was anywhere but the musty places in our cabinets where we stowed away all of our bad breath and fingernail clippings to keep from looking imperfect
but
we weren't beautiful
and we weren't perfect
so we shined till we
burned ourselves
out