we’re close
we talk about *** every chance we get
she doesn’t know that we’re friends, but I do
I’ve told her my fear of ***
and she says you’re not weird
she tells me this is normal
but her definition of normal is as firm as wet paper
she is a funhouse
a haunted one too
I don’t know how to tell her that she can be just a house
one she isn’t afraid to live in
she writes poetry too
in them, I don’t see her, but the words belong to her
her poetry is confetti at a funeral, out of place
it is beautiful
I believe she is poetry
her mouth, a shotgun of emotions
sometimes too sad, too truthful
how can I tell her not to love the apathy?
we tell jokes too
laugh at our sadness
skydive in our happiness
all to make the lonely go away,
at least for me
I think she might love the lonely
she wears it like armor.