It’s like a growth that you know is there
but you refuse to seek medical treatment
You just avoid touching it
trying to convince yourself that
you’re okay
You’re not dying

It’s a scent that will linger on
like skunk on a dog
No matter your special remedies
the smell isn’t going to go
Until it goes on it’s own

But I’m convinced
This feeling isn’t killing me
or straining my senses

I’m okay
I’m not dying

I am the game

that’s hard to appreciate outside of elementary,
or foreign language class in high school

I want to be your bingo

The excitement you get over luck
The small but sweet surprise prize
and the twinkle in those eyes,
all over a few (phone) numbers
and (love) letters

I am the game

that is often neglected
until one realizes adding monetary value
makes everything worth risking
but the truth is Honey
I won’t always pay out

My brain is a soft serve swirl of
no's and please don't go's and
I love you so's
and
I can't really get in there
to stop it from dripping
down into my chest cavity
and making a sticky home
with my breaking heart

You are the vapor
that escapes my lungs
and the clashing
of two confused tongues

You and I
went through
phases

nutella and
new music and
Children's television and
taco bell and
movie going and
the lottery

We never won
a **** thing

Then there was
sleeping in and
not sleeping at all and
neuro something-or-other and
youtube

My head on your lap
Your hands on my head
Your eyes on the screen

Lastly
there was
5 guys
but

how many did it take
to sever me
from you?

just
one

How could a still evening
spin this cloud of smoke
so brilliantly in front of
such a dark night
illuminated only by
artificial light
and
how could it be witnessed
with no thick frames
accompanied by lenses
enabling that flashing image
seemingly waving
from the end of the pavement
to be understood

How can the information
being inferred
from a pixelated screen
be processed

She is just curious
Her

How can that
be processed

My stomach grumbles, as do I
saying "I'm done, throw this away."
Shoveling a picked apart parcel of pulp,
placed pleasantly in front of me paces previously,
back into the bakers basket

All I could do was try to taste this treat,
as it constantly tantalizes my taste buds
I reach a treaty with Me each day
again I say
"I'm done, throw this away"

Then again, it will probably always whisper
from the waste basket
so maybe
it's okay for me to love just the voice?

So
Maybe
it's okay for me to love
just the crumbs?

Maybe
it's okay.

No, no no
It's okay
"I'm done
Throw this away"