It's just that. Thirty pounds of weakness. A hard-sided steel briefcase with the black leather-strapped handle. It's that reiki healer I don't believe in, and the rocks that have names. I don't believe it anymore. I am stranded on a pylon, the world spinning beside me, the palm trees gushing blood onto the oedipal sand beaches. It's your brother Thomas ******* the curls in my chest hair while I'm walking to get a glass of tap water, we're face to face and he's touching my wiry curls and your juices and kisses are still on face. I don't believe him. The porch door is open, I can see halfway around the city from here, the lemon tree is serving ugly fruit, I turn off the hallway light and shuffle my feet like a child, never taking them off of the white curd carpet while I head back to the bedroom. I don't believe it, you told me I had the voice of your Uncle who touched you, who you blew when you were two. You said you could feel my shadow coming up the hallway but were too afraid to lock the door. I made whispers loud enough for you to hear about all the hole love I had for you. I don't believe it's been five years and I'm still typing and timing my meals to schedules in sentiment that haven't existed for months upon months over months.
I was in the bathroom, serrating my skin with a nail file. Sneaking phone numbers from the Holz-licker's phone. He's quieter than normal. I sent threats abroad, Europe first, the Eastern block, then Russia, two to New Zealand, one to South Africa, I met you in the car and asked about Nick and the swing set. No one could give me a straight ******* answer. I don't believe it, it's 12 hours later, and even Princess ****** can't put me to sleep, I know nighttime like I was studying it, hitchhiking the darkness with my thumb turned outward. I hate every part of what I have become. I could drown myself in the shower, breathe in the water and feel as it sharply shoots through my lungs, my tummy, and through the ventricles of my heart. I don't believe how much I've written and the hell I've written about. I should **** him, just for his indifference, just to rule out a single number. A prime number. The uneven oddity about it, slovenly and chaotic. I made a silver drop for your sister and one for you too. Nothing came of it, nothing comes. 30 pounds I wait, I'm weighted down to my trunk. I want coffee, I want tea, I want biscuits for breakfast, I want certainty. I make the wolves that follow, you're the chase that I'm running in. You are the footsteps and deep breaths I don't believe in, I am unsettled by us standing still. And while you usher my standard bones. And while you curtail my excellent surprise. I will be the one disbelieving your appeal, the one peeling back your eyeballs dry. Not that I wanted, I waned, I wooed each every other fellow through- but inside my needle, heaped atop my bed, are the locks of gold I entombed you in. I drank the black dragon blood of the heavy metal christ. I still don't believe that just because I killed you it means that you've died.
