funny that we
become stories in
other people's chests,
that we can spend days
weeks months years
centuries carving every
letter of every word that's
been spoken to us on the
inside of our ribs while
others are content to just
let the syllables fall in their
normal rhythms across their
lungs and no they wouldn't
mind if some of the words
caught on a bronchial tube
or two but it wouldn't be
the end of the world if
they didn't.

When Robin Williams
died I thought of you.
I wanted to call you
but I don't have your
number anymore. It's
816-248-something. It
has to be that because
you have T-Mobile and
here they're all 816-248
but I can't remember
the last four digits. You
don't like to talk on the
phone so I never learned
your number. I'm not
sure what I would say
to you if I were to get in
touch with you or run
into you at the grocery
store. Maybe I would
tell you I hate you I miss
you I can't understand
what made you think that
what you did was going
to turn out okay for me
or her or even you. God
just please tell me you're
sorry you were such an
awful human being.

strained vocal chords
are merely the very
beginning of attempts
of telling myself
that i am worth more
than this. i am messy
and jumbled and i
will never do my
dishes within two
days of using them
or wash something
other than my socks
and underwear at
the end of every
week or speak in
sentences that make
sense outside of
the corners of my
brain,
but that's okay.

listen,
i avoid your shows
and your friends
and your mom (and
god i loved your
mom more than i
loved you, i think)
and i have even
stopped going to
target in case you
might be working.
i'm so tired of
going out of my
way to be normal.

do you dream
about me-
no lipstick left
and wild hair?
i hope i am
swallowed by
golden light in
all of them,
that you are only
able to see me in
the wilderness,
that you wake up
with a pain in the
middle of your
sternum where i
used to run my
fingers while we
watched movies or
listened to the rain
under your covers.