It's hard to understand
It's hard to understand
that
I need you
for comfort though
you're the reason
I hurt
and gaze
in disbelief
at how my life
for the last five years
chained and drenched
me as I attempted
to
juggle (with one arm) while poison and cobwebs dripped and spun
right under my growing nose.
If I weren't me, perhaps
I'd laugh,
though this is no joke.
These are
veins and hearts,
not empty
record sleeves and cassette tape dreams.
This is a real,
tangible thing.
On display today, and
everyday,
a second hand find
I didn't realize
I needed
until it unraveled itself
in my line
like
a blue velvet picture of smiling
women
and their perfect breasts,
wrapped in
feathers and pebbles,
all wet
from
the rain
that's taken them
apart
and brought them
back together
again.
