Lovely, these metaphors you sing for your sadness
Like four blankets at night to keep your hypothermic heart from collapsing, contracting
Just like a sitcom but never funny
I see through your sunny, honey
I see through your morbid
Speak to me more about your profound nonsense
You and your posts
You and your profile pictures captioned with inspirational bullshit
You aren’t warm
But you can try– cry as you do
Throw your bullets at easy targets, now, now
Those people are designed to be taken down easy
Or at least,
In your head,
You do not want to go back to the place
Where you’ve felt more vulnerable; where your mortality was right next to your face
All roads to growing old and wise, thrown out of barred windows
Sitting beside other people who they think should feel the same way you feel
But every once in a while, everybody in the same dark crowd could feel the depths of their being alone
Their separation: their sentence
“You are being too hypercritical”
“You are too dramatic”
Drink up, honey
You need to quench your thirst
They promised you wouldn’t feel so lonely
When your stomach is flushed with paint
It’d feel like home, they called
They said, that it would cure you
When all you deserved was to be numb
Seems like Life is forcing me to choose which kind of happy I want to be.
Do I want to take back the sinewy sun that set three years ago, fell invective years ago, or move ruggedly forward
A slave to the baseless, ineffective future, the metric figure,
The caveat emptor of emptiness and impetus.
I’ve never known laughter wide as I used to.
I think I should return to my habits of Cappadocia courting and guernsey and swish kebabs kissing.
Maybe I feel that I should resolve, and dig up
The stalwart body buried in naif incommunicado, the caustic Purusha junket that never did follow.
Life, it deems, is really making me choose,
And I look like the woods, and my skin like the woods
Would want nothing less but to never die, never lose.