i tape a poem to my wall and title
it “scrambled eggs”, my therapist
doesn’t think it’s healthy to water
my plants with old pepsi cans, but
she doesn’t know the difference
between the color of the sky and
the color blue, i take photographs
of wrists and name them after
famous poets, my last one was
W.H Auden, i tell my brother that
if i ever have children i will name
them just that, he doesn’t care
and tells me that his pot dealer
is in jail for rape, i kiss boys at
parties who pronounce my name
wrong, when i tell this to you, you
laugh and tell me that i’m the
strangest poet you’ve ever met, a
man with big elbows spoke to
my class about drunk driving,
nobody seemed to notice that
he never once told his victim he
was sorry, i flinch when people
ask about my sister, your words
still ripple across my skin like nails,
i swallow teeth and have read Lolita
four times since you’ve left, nobody
asks what i dream about, nobody
seems to care, i read in some article
that the fish population is greatly
increasing, i also read that at the
age of seventeen you’ve only met
approximately thirty four percent
of people in the spam of your entire
lifetime, i bought chalk last week
but forgot about the milk, i think time
is erasing you, and i’m afraid i am too
If you have trouble loving yourself, imagine yourself as a flower and think, have you ever thought less of a flower for being crooked? Or short? For not blooming yet? For its color or placement in the world?
The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.
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