you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it.
i’ve only done it
once or twice. last night
i awoke from a dream
in which you were playing johnny cash
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
and ‘every day is one day less.’
we were staying in an airbnb
and the room reeked of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i was thinking about how you told me
you didn’t have as many freckles
as you wished you did
as i peeled the sticker
from the front of the book.
tell me you have enough
to pay for what you want in life
and tell me you’re not an addict
cause you’ve only done it
once or twice
and let me tell you about mountain lions
and how the chlorine in the swimming baths
used to taste like cider and cough syrup
like ginger ale and painkillers
that dissolve on your tongue
before you swallow them down.
i whisper to you that my mother
used to lick matchboxes
(speak louder, love, come on)
before her daddy left her too
not because he didn’t love her
but because it hurt too much
to love her in the way
only he could understand.
last night i awoke from a dream
in which we filled our suitcases
with shampoo and sugar packets
and i recited the final lines
of my favourite shakespeare play
as you sat up on the windowsill
and lit yourself a cigarette
and said: don’t look at me like that.
you know i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i’m staring at you from the carpet
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before.
i used to say that some cynics die
and that i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
cause i’ve only done it once or twice
and i’ve only told you
a thousand times
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
when i thought about what i’d done to her
and what i’d tried to do
to myself.
last night i awoke from a nightmare
in which the walls were
bleeding red
and then the trees had broken arms
and i got my ankles caught
in the mud
and i’ve been crying more
than i know i should
because i hate the way it burns
but god, i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
so let me tell you about mountain lions
and people who no longer think of me
and who will never think
about me again
and how that’s the kind of thing
that reeks of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and ‘i never think about love, you know
i never think about—’
how some cynics die
but they often die so young
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and ‘every day is one day less’
and every breath
is one breath less
and that’s what tastes like chlorine
and that’s what tastes
like cough syrup
when you haven’t even
got a cough
but you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it
and i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i wanted to tell you
in the way i always do
(pieces of paper between my teeth)
that my prayers are just nicotine
and the man hasn’t touched a cig
for as long as my parents
haven’t each other
but that’s just gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
like you don’t need as many freckles
or as many mountain lions.
i’m staring at you through the phone screen
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before
because last night
i awoke from a dream
and i didn’t remember a thing.