I’ve kept most of my concert stubs as evidence that I once left the house.
I’ve thrown away lovers as evidence that I am not a hoarder.
You hear the word “lover,” and panic hits the metacarpals.
A blame game of, it takes two—and yes, we do consider criticism, and often misinterpret love for hate, and lust for love, and all of the above.
But during outbreaks and contagions—
I keep insects on the corners of my mouth,
I keep you on the corners of my mind,
I keep me glued to disproportion in case an earthquake hits.
I keep me looking forward for something good to eat.
We live with a degree of how important we have told each other we should be.
We are as important as the dirt beneath our feet.
We’ve built—erected monuments for our cocks to educate,
the salient drip of what we call our language, one of the ways we assimilate.
Milk dripping from the precipice we’ve cut to hide our bought distresses.
How many more times can I let you fuck me dry in hiked up dresses?
We are American, or human, more than—
We have enough to share but we are solitaire—wet necks hanging from whatever we can find there.
As days turn, and minds churn, I remind myself that—
I’ve kept most of my concert stubs as evidence that I once left the house.
I’ve thrown away lovers as evidence that I am not a hoarder.
