I sit and I dream,
a parasitic dream,
where we aren't
who we were
and we aren't
how we seem.
Where I eat you
and you eat me
and somehow
we're still
happy.

In each pile of
body on body
I walk by
loneliness
and loss.
I love you's
and
I hate me's
saturate the air's
conscience.
Us,
the nation and all
are pinned against
each wall
being ******,
mercilessly.
We are
*******
heartbreakers.
Our ***** are
property of
others:
intellectual property.

In my dream,
where I dream,
everyone
I've ever loved,
is dreaming
and
trapped in a pit
of motorized
rubber ******
where the rubber
pumps and eats,
pumps and eats,
breaking ribs,
shattering spines,
ripping esophagus,
splitting spirit like
tissue paper.
Bodies ripped apart
by branded, artificial
"love":
society's configuration.
Brand recognition.
Product placement.
Motor salad.

I'm going to throw up I'm going to faint I'm going to hit the floor and let the blood pound pound pound in my head like a ******* drum like the one that our good friend Chris plays.
And I'm going to cry and I'm going to scream and I'm going to tear out my skin and my eyes will burn red like a sunrise like the sunrise we watched that morning when I gave you everything.
I'm going to hit the wall with my fists and yell and yell until my throat is raw and "why did I fall so ******* deep oh my gosh HOW WAS I SO STUPID SO. *******. Stupid."
I can't even type because my hands are shaking and my head is pounding and my chest is heaving and I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up.

Your sweetness is the kind that stays even after coffee has gone cold,
like still bedsheets that have not been knotted by sleep.

Even after dust gathers, you're still here.

Little bites and notes of sweetness on my eyelashes, tops of my cheeks.