There are certain people never meant to be written
with matching socks, or with expensive funerals.
Assume you can love me, even though I’m one of both.
No, take me by the shoulder. Tell me I’m ridiculous
in our own haunted, bony kind of language.
Here we go: most nights I want to miss your mouth
and kiss the hollows in your biceps. Listen.
I want you to see me cry so hard,
I flush out my nose with all the saltwater.
Everyone’s sick off of all these poems,
but a song made up of four chords can still be
some lonely kid’s messiah. I swear, I want to stop,
but you’re so ******* warm. Shh.
Lately, I think maybe that’s what art is all about.
I’m the lopsided inkwell, loving so hard
I can ******* stain you. I’ve got plenty of skills.
Surviving in the desert. Resisting atrophy. That’s right,
brag to your friends about my impressive
rate of infatuation. Make me a bumper sticker:
Your tightass honor student is never going
to love someone as disgustingly hard as I can,
*******, and yes, I’m going to glorify it.
I’m the original unrequited. I’m flavourless.
Dante got in a fight with Warhol and then I was born,
violently mass-producing poems about the hell
made up of your fingers. Take that, I can rhyme the life
out of the soup cans I found in your face.
I’m gonna need a pretty big truck to fit all of this.
Yeah, you’re gonna need a gap in your chest
like an eighteen-wheel semi, just to hold me.
