I have a hard time with milky tennis shoes
and photographs of champagne. The void insisting
it is not a void. Especially when I’ve tasted
plaque and eviction.
You’ve never seen a black eye outside of that
movie you shut off in favor of a plastic tulip.
You couldn’t even spell demeaning.
Really, I want to root for you. And all of those
mink sweaters, those snakes around your heel.
How cute. You’re my savior, baby.
How do you bear it? The strain of eating around
the bloody meat. How the sadness feels like minutes.
In the real, actual hospital I would hoard packets of
salt by my bed for when I wanted a thrill.
I’m envious of your shit.
Let me help you get those likes.
Blood looks like this.