My life has become a bit like a fishbowl:
the glass is thick and durable, it's supposed to
be smudge-proof, but you never fail to leave your finger-
prints behind. There are rocks at the bottom, a blend of neons:
blue and orange and pink and green and yellow, painted with the
cheap kind of paint that eventually chips away and gathers at the tip-top of the water...always mixing in with the the flimsy food flakes you toss in at mealtimes before watching with disinterested fascination as I swim to the top and sort through what's edible and what's not, as if the food is much better than the chips of paint and the dust bites that gather after a few days of sitting on the counter. My bowl stays in the sun as though the pink and purple fake plants you've given me require time spent in
the light to grow and prosper, although it is fun to check every
now and then to see how much you really care when I let
myself drift to the top of the water to bask in the glow
of either the sun or the artificial lamp that's been
placed next to my bowl. Some nights you
forget to turn it off, but I don't mind
so much because at least then I
can watch over you at night
the way you watch over
her, instead of me.

You   were
supposed
to be my
anchor;
But
U
end
ed up
burnin
g my dr
eams. Yo
u  became
my  very  o
wn brand  of
ca m  p  h or  ;
A ban  d  onin g
me in the ab
undance o
f my scr
eam
s.

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.
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.
.
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   I   '   m
  n   o   t
   f u s e d ;
  M a y  b e
   a    l   i   t   t   l  e
   c   o   n   f   u   s  e  d  .
  I ' ve    s  t  i  l  l    g  o  t
  a    l  o  t   o f   f  i  g  h  t
  l   e   f   t     i    n    m   e ;
  I ' ve    s  t  i  l  l    g  o  t
a   l o  t   o f   l i g h t
   l   e   f   t     i    n
    m  e . . . . .