I AM NOT TAYLOR SWIFT

Today I almost caved and drank.
My new dog has an ulcer
He needs eye drops
Created with his own blood
administered twice daily
I will be in Mexico - Dia De Los Muertos,
instead of here to help.
I know it doesn’t sound so bad
but in the moment, it felt extreme.
I walked .25 miles to the nearest smoke shop and bought cigarettes
for sixteen dollars.
I smoked one then threw out the pack because I am not a smoker.
a man called me a fucking cunt
which felt nice.

I am almost thirty-three:
sleeping in the evening, picking chocolate chips
from cartons of ice cream
falling asleep with my eyes open watching tv
nursing stupid-big dreams and dark fantasies
that get me through the day.
Playing my own pain like a videogame. 

I am not Taylor Swift
I flash my nipples into the void,
my pussy on the internet.

CARSICK IN LAUREL CANYON

I don’t remember anything about turning twenty-one
except drinking Irish Coffee at brunch,
wishing I was in London.

Green, fingerless gloves
you playing your music too loud
while I tried to dodge the floating thoughts of other girls
bruises on my fists from punching trees in Hyde
park

It’s ten years and I don’t have a gift for writing about what’s over.
I feel tragic and braindead.
I take sleeping pills, force myself to stay awake
Words don’t come easy
driving carsick through Laurel Canyon
eating pomegranates and pretzels in the breakroom.

I’ve tasted praise
I know how sweet it is.
I’m
more likely to die
than get the relief I’m craving.

THE AMERICANS AT LUNCHTIME

One day I will have a proper house
with a driveway
and a yard—

One day I will have a couch in the shape of an L
Nobody believes me,
that I can sleep with my eyes open

I watch The Americans at lunchtime.
eat peanut butter banana sandwiches
and tangerines
chocolate Hershey kisses
folding the tinfoil into triangles
and then smaller triangles
and then
smaller.

These days I am heavy
My curves, a responsibility
I never asked for. 

These days I live the language of square footage
and it isn’t adding up.
I live overlooking an abandoned
preschool where runaways and crack heads
of other varieties have found a home.
From my window I look down at them not knowing
if I am me.
I look down at them
not knowing
if I am here.