Call me Gretel
I document all the new things I’m doing
online. You’re never on
my mind which explodes with
new ideas all the time. Now
I’m a newly published poet, ironic
that first poem, a shot poured straight
from the bottle of booze that is my heart.
A poem about how you didn’t love me.
A fish that loved a bird.
How silly is that? I wish it
weren’t true. I wish fish had wings.
I wish birds didn’t eat fish alive—
fish who have no eyelids
who get to watch their mangled flesh devoured
all the while being dangled above their old home
I love that word—dangled.
Fuck. Everything makes me sad
and sadder pulls me closer to happiness
because its for you. I build churches
for you at night out of PBR cans
securing them with my emptied veins
because without a heart…
People die for religion all the time right?
I’m currently penning your bible.
I can be your Jesus, ya know
I’d die for you. Fuck. I have.
Standing in the mirror, I reason with me.
You’re pretty. You’re cool. You’re swell.
Tears welling up.
I wear waterproof makeup these days.
Nothing used to make me cry.
I realized I was just a plugged faucet.
You plumber you! You fixed me
buttcrack barely peeking from your board shorts
as you paddle out—happy surfer you. Happy
(this is what hurts)
You—you, all day 4-7, 50 cent drinks
4:20 you.
You see my drunk
and raise me
down. I prop up new things in my life:
Meet Brad Pitt.
You shake his hand.
I’ll squeeze his hand later to find that imprint
and remember the arms I loved attached to those hands
and everything else—even your dick. Perfect,
of course.
Your stupid fucking lips that never ever
frown. Our first kiss and all the breadcrumbs I followed
after that.
