But the anger still boils

I’m not upset, it’s more like a blood-draining terror that encompasses this mangled thing I can sometimes call a body and other times can compare to a glass in which I am trapped like a misplaced arachnid, a diseased insect; it’s not anger, there is no anger in this burial ground, it’s more like

every metaphor I used to justify myself to you. Imagine it, try, if you can: you’re a poet that doesn’t write, you’re a big wall of unwritten text bleeding through a mind. Is that all I was to you? No, let me finish,  this time you are a song on an ancient hominid’s vinyl record, and you are spinning, and you are spinning, and you are spinning into some sort of woven textile to be pressed into a wall and gazed at for four seconds maximum and, hey, isn’t the number four special to you, baby, the number of years you got to live before you were forced underneath the skin-twisting sunlight to transform into a sabre-toothed monster that, even with its monstrousness and extensions, simply couldn’t keep itself whole? I’m right, aren’t I? The look on your face should be sliced off & preserved, hung behind museum glass. You’re not upset, I know

you’re not upset, stop saying that you’re not upset. You know I can read minds. You know that I have been blessed, but I wish I had money,  I wish I had something in the world to keep safe…

It’s 2007. Now we are in 2007, and the radio is blasting at volume twenty-seven, and the smoke is making the year unbreathable. This is the year I learn to mourn myself in gas stations, in the backseat of bruised vehicles at night. It’s 2012. This is the year that I am left behind in the seclusion of the golden desert sand, face-down in a wedding dress like a child bride. I learn to like coffee in the diner where my soul is reaped. And, finally, we find ourselves in 2015, when I kill myself for good and fix this universe. So there’s my life story. Boring, isn’t it?

Good, but you know it already.  I’m not upset, it feels more like a novel-length lesson about longing, about placing myself in a world where I can feel fondness without it being a horror story, a book with a no good ending. I’m not upset. I will never be upset.