They,
and mind you that a “they”
is always a “somebody” that needs a disguise.
They say, they say that selfies are now causes of depression.
They say, they say that selfies are now causes of narcisim.
They say, they say.
Close my eyes and clutch at him,
drag myself back from the brink,
with every grab, long dragged scratch,
empty myself into passion that belongs to no one.
Dropped eight hours into Pokemon FireRed yesterday,
One-hitted both of Brock’s out the gate,
Named myself ‘n my rival to cause Oak to have an existential quandry,
“Nobody, No one, here are your Pokedexs”
“Why do I even bother, no one will listen to an old man…“
“This anarchist holy-land runs on dog-fighting and uber-capitalism”
I think that I look beautiful today.
I think that I do not.
My behavorial therapist is talking at me,
and I’m staring out her window,
into this golden field waving in the wind.
“If you could go back and say something to her,
what would you say?“
“I would just hold her.”
“Have you told her that?“
“Yes.”
There’s an old red barn half-rotted,
half-overgrown.
“What do you want from your relationship with her.“
“I don’t know.”
“You should decide that.“
No shit.
No shit.
No shit.
No shit.
No shit.
And we’re both too drunk,
but he’s here and I’m here,
and I’m not gonna cry,
I’m not gonna cry into his shoulder.
I’m a man, god-dammit, a fuckin’ man.
and he’s got lips,
and they want mine.
They want mine.
They say, they say.
They say, run.
