Dear-

Whoever
Will listen. I'm jealous of the
Places you call home. There is blood on the floor
From my heart clenching so tightly
And it's starting to stain my skin like
I'm a crime scene.
I know that this is lust
And if people have affairs with cities
I want to sell myself on street corners.

If the doctors told me
I had only one more day to live,
I would have a heart attack
and die right now, before I had another chance
to swallow fresh air like a
drowning man
or soak up sunbeams
like a black hole one
last time.

I'm making promises to myself that soon
I will be conducive, but first I need to shout
my anxiety away
from the top of the tallest building
just so somebody knows
because
on Sunday mornings
you realize that solitude is very different
from loneliness.

I am alive but at a cost of being a breathing cliche,
an old metaphor from bad high school poetry,
scribbled on a used napkin and thrown in the trash.
I am writing love letters to ghosts because I will
understand if I don't get a reply, and because being rejected
from the dead isn't so bad after all.

Each "Yours Truly" scrawled at the bottom
of the page is actually a whole other conversation.
I am telling you I was born to chase
things people can't catch. I feel terrible when
I can't fight and every word of explanation
might as well burst into flames.
Arson could tell it better than I could.

This is where I am in the margins of history,
lost, numb and trying to discover what's
good for my survival. I need to quit
cannibalism because eating hearts in pieces
isn't as good as being given them whole.
Keep your distance.
I am wicked and inside a nice box called disorderly.


                                                   ­                                               -YOURS TRULY,