We are uneasy. We live in strange rooms.
Children draw lines on their faces to look like us.
On our first date, we open up like cadavers.
Lobsters are repelled by the stench of their own dead.
A guy coughs up a nail after thirty years.
Lately, I find it difficult to breathe.
On our first date, I eat my pasta erotically,
each dangling noodle making me a little sexy.
I can destroy you, but that’s not my purpose.
I will either invite you inside, or I won’t.
Do you share my fear of an upstairs neighbor
crashing through the ceiling? Do you share my fear
of being buried underneath another person?
My anxiety can do more pushups than your anxiety.
My anxiety is a total whore.
As for my body, it’s a church of bones.
I will either invite you inside, or I won’t.
We are just children, just former children
playing with hula hoops someone set fire to.
Before we kill each other, let’s take turns
pretending, we have everything we need.
We’ll buy our guns. We’ll play our instruments.
We are just children, just former children
dressed in a style appropriate to revelry.
Lately, we find it difficult to breathe.
Lately, we find it difficult to breathe.
