i am just now coming to terms with
the fact that i may be scary

time bomb, pocket bomb.
if there can be a universe in a fingernail

mine is long, protruding, sharp.
piercing through the styrofoam of a stressball.

please do not keep me in that dark thing.

i could make you orange slices or
a little figurine, of a moose.

that i liked the song your
boyfriend made.
i don’t. its bad. it doesnt mean
he is bad, just the song is bad.

all the alcohol i “drank” and
all the times i got “****** up”
or “smashed” in between
the ages of zero and nineteen.
lies. all i knew was the sadness
of others, my neighbours magnum opus.
why would i ever touch a brush for
myself when i could remake something
we all agree is beautiful.

when you once told me that
if two people stand at opposite sides
of the room and close their eyes,
if they keep walking forward
they’ll kiss. and when it didn’t
work the first time i guided you
into my lips and you smiled like
the sun was in us in that moment.

is that so wrong

the stitches in my thigh are
healing so now we can all shake hands
and watch the money
poor in. the bombs are not coming,
please come out from
under your desks, you are safe
now and if im being honest
the desks wouldn’t protect you
from the shrieks of a
war plane. they sound
like nothing you’ve
ever heard
a frequency you unlocked
just for this
particular pain. you can almost see
the sound pour into your ear drums
like a bartender mixing
the ***** and the cranberry.
it sounds like 6am
it sounds like the same song
over and over.

ive never been hungover
ive been drunk, but never
hungover. i just wake up fine like
nothing happened because
nothing happened i just drank. and what of it?

i drink water too. when i get home
ill swing the cupboards
open and try my best to find the
best cup. the only one
that can hold what will take me out of
the haze in my eyes.

//

i finally bought a painting for my apartment
it was small enough to take
home so i did. i
ran my hands all over my empty walls
felt the paint bumps in the drywall.
god, you could be anywhere. so i
put you in my room i kept you
for myself only my space can
feel like home now.

i am twenty and driving through the dark.
not really driving, im shotgun
making up for lost time.
driving through the dark, too cold to crack the windows.
the music blaring, we sing along so loud.
i am twenty, singing loud to the radio,
making up for lost time.

i watch the other cars drive past us
going the opposite direction.
why aren't they going the same way we are?
chasing the dead trees on the black night highway.

i hope they are making up for lost time too.
i hope they are going to drink in a field
or kiss a crush at a house party.
something they should have done awhile ago.

On my last subway ride
I fixate on the plastic map that rims the gap above the exit.

My eyes follow from Ossington, west down the line two.
I stare with such detail.
If the subway weren’t so packed
maybe I’d steal that map for myself.
Put my hands on each corner
and pull out the edges from their holders.
Roll it up into my hoodie
and sneak out like I’d stolen a priceless jewel.
Too many people on the subway I thought, that’s why I won’t.

I take the 44 home from the subway,
and think about how ***** it feels.
How it wasn’t the storybook ending I imagined.
Where everyone hugs and maybe someone cries.
The sky was grey and I was running errands.

As I left for the train station early next morning
I thought about how I may never see these buildings the same way. You have to be in the city to see the buildings this way.
Looking out at the patios that riddle the downtown outskirt condo’s, each floors’ stacked on top of another.
How nice it must be to live so close to a skyline.
How nice it must be to stand outside and still miss the rain.

i cannot write for **** anymore.
i have lost my ability to compel.
to even express.
anything and everything i feel is hiding from me
in some part of my body ive never reached
because it knows what i will do if i catch it.
rip out its inside like squishing a blueberry.
just a quick meal until i am off to **** its friends.
i am no tortured artist, just trying to shield.
i cant wait to read this in a year and applaud
for subtle progress, but me and i my friend
are stuck in different muds.

i have an affinity for cool **** and will spend the rest of my life trying
to explain how it feels to float.

and when i say cool **** i mean things that will make you swing the spotlight.

i finally have a night worth remembering and while im drunk in the uber, the driver hits two potholes.

they sync up to the kick-drums on the radio and i write that down so i never forget it.

but i never forget the things i write down, not because they're always there but because i gave them the time they deserved.