may the gods of public road maintenance guide your soul
the custard from a day-old boston cream
drips down my chin as i take an ugly bite
while heading down main street. it’s cloyingly sweet
in the gouging late-afternoon heat. i pretend
i’m doing a cum-walk that will be uploaded
in 144p to xhamster
for ugly men to jerk off to
at 2am, but i smile thinking
for a second i’d be the apple
of someone’s eye. in the blinding light
i yearn (lmao) for sloped nails
sharpened to a point, slicing into my back
so all the grime underneath them slips
into my tissues and grows into something
loveable. step by step i interpret
the rorschach asphalt. a map leading me
where i need to be (on a studded leash).
my anxiety called to say everyone hates me and i’m like, “so true, bestie!”
waking up in my best friend’s room as the sun
lights a negative of the window
on one of his skim-coated cream walls when
the glass clown on the sill says something
along the lines of, “you’re a fucking joke
like me.” but i try to ignore it
as i kiss my partner’s forehead right
where they scraped their head on a tree the night
before while gathering dry sticks to keep
a fire going and help a stranger
stay warm.
taking only half doses
for a week simply to see if i’m still
there leads directly to spiraling
in an uncomfortable dining room chair
while i notice everyone’s individual
tension tangling and taunting me.
and i am a rock or more so
a temporary tattoo that is always
peeling instead of a real one setting
and healing. and the glass clown dives in
with a “you don’t deserve so much
beauty.” i nod my head shakily.
february 14th
cupid gets drunk and bored during the 364 days he has off and if i were him
i’d also blindfire arrows into rural barns at 3AM just to see what
happens. but today’s the one day he’s not hungover. dead sober
sipping from a can of lukewarm non-alcoholic PBR in between the routine
of squaring his shoulders, straightening his arm, pulling the string
to the corner of his mouth, taking aim, letting go, and watching the barbed tips rip
straight through the necks of anyone tilting their heads for a kiss. everyone
is skipping through human sprinklers of blood spurting from carotid arteries
in the harsh fluorescence of the local Walgreens to buy sidewalk chalk
shaped like abstract lust. and we’re all rubbing giant pink grinning teddy bears
in the rivers of gore flowing through the aisles. it’s all caked on like the love we feel
in our hearts, which are all tattooed in comic sans with words like “crazy
4 u” and “i’m going to live forever in the home i make out of your skin” and “soul
mate.” then as we all shove the stems of roses down our throats, a Michael Bolton song
playing so loud on the store speakers that our eardrums are about to burst, we choke out
all the words we’re too scared to say in the intimacy of every other day.
