Resolutions are
supposed to be
constructed from broken staircases and
antique chandeliers to
sand away the rough patches on your
wrist bones and
the scabs on your elbows;
they're meant to
declaw your demons and
file down your teeth so you
stop ripping the Band Aids off the
wounds that have been trying to
heal since the day you
gave up on
morality,
they're meant to take what you have and
polish it until it's
pretty enough to put behind the
glass in the living room where
strangers can
"ooh" and "ahh" and
pretend like they actually
give a ****,
they're made to fold you up into a
paper crane as a
reminder that
everything can be art if you
strip away the titles.

However,
my New Years resolution is to
write a poem every day, to
finally post the
For Rent sign that's been
gathering dust
in the attic, to
staple my heart to the
bulletin board in the
bad part of town.

Is it more ironic that I'm digging up the worst parts of myself to make my art better, or that I think writing some ****** metaphors is considered a resolution?