If you're a lover, then where is your passion?
Where is your interest in me, your
curiosity of my affairs?
If you're a lover, then where is your attention?
Any given day, you ignore me for the TV.
You turn and say, though, you burn for me.
Given how you wait to be prompted,
is it hard to imagine I don't feel interesting?

If you're a lover, when's the last time you expressed
at least some minor urge to **** me?
How am I supposed to buy a charade
when I'm the one who must wind the key?
If you're a lover, why do you never write
about me, but when you're sad?
Where is your urge to hold me, as I've held
you cradled for all these years?
Don't you think I ever need protection or intention
without a beggar's plea?

If you're a lover, then why do you forget my presence
until I remind you that I'm alive?

Well,
memories,
hemorrhages
well
up from the sticky hole.

One time, I fell and hit my head
three times, three places, once in each:
the cabinet, the sink, the bathtub.

Practice being me by proxy.
Out of my head. Out my head.
Tangible damages,
incorporeal skeins.
Mess? Wreck. Heck,

This time, I stood and cracked
my skull on the cabinet:
Clarity? Is that you?

Practiced being me by proxy,
so so long.
Practiced being me by proxy.
Practiced being me by proxy,
so so long.
Practiced being me by proxy.

Clarity?
Or is this
an actual
hemorrhage?

Well,
Memory,
my sticky hole
is filling up
where the water was ****** by the ground.

Beside a full size bed,
full of destiny and dream,
a corpse dressed up
to fit among
the living, softly sleeps.

Carving sAl(i)vAtiOn in black
marker on the walls,
recounting upset memories,
I stick the landing.
I didn't plan to stay

In this depressive state,
but I'm fully equipped.
Adaptable to necessity,
without trying to fit.
I may be sad, reclusive,
virulent at my worst --

When will you
come to terms with this curse?
When will you learn
it's best
you be
who you
need?

When will you
fall in love with this curse?

When will you learn,
there's plenty room
for the misfit?