we sit in bars waiting for time. speaking in a foreign language they call normative because it is no longer safe to be here.
(a lover waits for death, across the other side)
there’s nothing left once the imaginary apocalypse is no longer a reflection of time and taty has since stopped with that stupid song.
(will you tell her i taught you to numb your body to pain?)
this morning a teary nun with hairy legs, opened my door with her nose to explain to him what lovers do when they can no longer grieve their exes.
(he says i should remind her to fetch her nails from under my bed but i want him to first stop these bloody toes from hanging from my ceiling).
i like to think of myself as a stubborn non-human organism experiencing existential nightmares as though i were human. after numerous almost-failed attempts at long-form, i now call myself a poet (which i use as an excuse to be cynical about life).