I felt a sickness
in his kiss.

He didn't know that I already knew.
I wore red to his funeral when I was eighteen.

We re-live the things that change us.

II.

Blink.  
The living room is still
a dull shade of alabaster.

A beat up can of
PBR sits crumpled
in the corner like a
forgotten love letter to God.

The radio is still on.  It hums good charlotte’s wondering
like a middle school yearbook hums omitted connections
and promises of eternal companionship.

People are passed out in couples.

III.

A dog barks somewhere.  I wonder if he’s starving, too.
I touch cereal boxes, cheese plates, bread bowls and panic
between the sheets of an unkempt and unfed twenty one year old.

IV.

I am twelve years old and i’m
standing behind a podium having
an anxiety attack in a tweed jacket
and barbie light-up sneakers.

Nobody knows what i'm saying.


V.

I ask the mirror if it's joking.
The mirror laughs back at me.
The mirror grows hands and masturbates to
every other reflection its seen before mine.

VI.

It's noon and I'm accidentally
cutting my hand open on the seam
ripper he used to communicate.