When I was in her shoes,
somewhat,
I could be injured by any word,
anything.
If only they could feel what I feel.

I forget what I felt.
I have only cultivated a hard shell,
as I dole out
negativity.

Here I sit.
I don't believe I'm sitting. I don't believe in anything.
I can think I'm sitting. As long as I maintain that I could be wrong.

I don't believe in love. Even if I wanted to.
I can tell how I feel when you're around. And how I feel when you're not.

I don't believe in life. Or death. How could I ever rationalize a belief in something I don't understand?

I think. About fireflies, world *******, scotch, and jokes.
The jokes are to make you laugh. It's my favorite song.

I don't believe in anything. I envy those that do.
I'm just a lonely nihilist who wants to believe in you.

“Well if the shoe fits.”

And it never does,
either too tight or too loose,
with my paint-thinner feet,
narrow, knifing through the canvas
heels flopping out at the back
toes mashing together at the front,

pacing between shelves at the store,
growing anxious mom impatient
in the waiting chair,

shifting between sizes,
walking prison-style with shoes zip-tied,
a second, third opinion,
salesclerk gets out the foot measure,
I take my socks off,
put them back on (are they too thick/too thin?)

feet either mashed or cavernous
if the salesclerk crouches down and presses a thumb at the end
and gives me an okay sign
I’ll walk around with ****** toes and bruised heels the rest of my life

because only others can convince me what my body truly feels
because mental illness is impalpable and therefore
unbelievable
and broken bones and black eyes
will perpetually surpass what lingers in my troubled mind
for I know not what the body wants (it’s ***, I think)

no,
I don’t know how it’s supposed to act,
or feel,
so I can let someone else decide for me,
as I let mom order my Happy Meals,
and buy my clothes she picked out,
and tell me what kind of girls I like,
and make my doctors’ appointments,
and file my taxes,
and pay my bills
(I just give her the money),

and I am convinced my body and mind
do not exist on the same plane,
and whatever signals they send each other
I render skewed
and the messenger disabled

and tonight I told mom
the shoes I’ve worn for five days straight
don’t fit
and my feet hurt
and she sighs and laughs simultaneously alongside the family
as she hands me the number to the store

and I halfheartedly wish
she’d make the call
or lean down and press a thumb
to the end of my shoe
and convince me it fits.

--Home, August 19, 1:41 AM

waiting for an old friend,
conversation Irani tea?

waiting for a downpour,
umbrella a support stick?

waiting for a son,
whose canvas shoes he adorns?

waiting for a wife,
her obese form from the doctor's?

waiting for a street dog,
to make biscuit crumble fists?

waiting for nobody,
but tedium, a familiar habit?  

can only blunder in theories,
as I stand beside him,
waiting for somebody...

I spy something
Murky red
And in the
Bottom of my cup.
I wash it down with
Something less than
Reluctant
While leaving the
Rust,
Or assumed iron,
To chance,
This one chance
And not to be
Repeated.

Tomorrow,
Now today,
I spy something
Murky red,
Once more tomorrow,
Tomorrow’s tomorrow,
Again and again
And day after days,
Rusty red
In the bottom of my
Cup –
I grow paranoid.

I empty the
“Keep,”
And creep into every
***,
Tea-***,
Pan and/or
Cooking tool
Seeking
Threatening material,
Foreign material,
And lodged in my brain
Material.

So too,
Amid my investigations,
I’d discovered
Alzheimer’s,
Dementia,
Blindness,
A stroke or two,
And in some cases
Death
Had you ingested enough
Ore,
Or so I’ve heard.

I spy
Metal flakes
Atop
Metal constructs,
Heavy,
Soft, caustic,
And broken post
Point-of-sale,
Broken
And now in me,
Circulating through my –
Spleen,
Kidney
And brain.

I’ve developed a
Phobia
For unwanted edible metal,
A curious
Cereal
Resulting from the
Cartoon
Of my
Dying grandfather,
Once an architect,
Now ten minutes to
Tie shoes –
A brain hemorrhaged
Iron, I’m sure of it.

****
It's hitting me and it's hitting me hard as I unpack the shoes you'd always tell me to wear into this new and vacant room, no mattress no furniture as you sleep in the bed I slept in for over a year. And who knows who will sleep there from now on and **** they better appreciate how perfect your cats are or that you don't snore in your sleep like a lot of boys do.

But that's the thing, I fell in love with a silly stupid boy. Women do not date boys. I should not have dated a boy.

Seedy weejuns and mule slippers flopped fast
across the cold dewed lawn, laps of breath puffs
churned.  Doing what we did best
burning off the night air, welcoming dawn.

Through sweat-filled labor
and unrelenting love,
my patient parents
meticulously molded
strong shoes to fit,
making each effort efficient
and all materials durable
so that if I were to walk
the path full of broken glass,
my skin would not tear,
my spirit not diminish,
and through their sacrifices,
prevent my blood
from staining the street.

There once was a ******* the news
They say she liked to eat shoes
Keep on your feet
When it's time to eat
Or you may be the next victim to lose