I yanked this poem out by the roots for you

harvested that garden of cranial
spaghetti sauce, crusted
fossilized reluctant

wrenched visibility from mudstains

I stole from the storm to give to the eye,
wanted to paint your chaos unimaginably long-skinned and
many feathered

violently dormant

the risk is proportionate to the view, always
this altitude a glory and a danger

I should be thanking you for.

Make a new friend.  Only friend in my neighborhood, essentially.  Now he’s telling me we can’t hang out because he’s in love with me. Ugh.  Not even flattering I’m just so so so sad because I thought it was the real thing.


You SHOULD love your friends.

He said he always looks for love in the wrong places.  I told him “you weren’t looking for love in the wrong place. Sex isn’t that.”