This Poem is Like a Poem That Isn’t a Poem

Sarah had a kiss like a communist, she believed in sharing it with everyone. Lauren loved like a trucker, always alone and leaving. Tony opened up like an atlas, letting Jennifer make a map of his heart. Ken made love like an accountant, keeping track of all the figures. This town is a spiderweb, we’re crawling in silky Louis Vuitton, up all day and night, rolling around in Corona Lights. My heart is a hunter, it’s also the fawn. Carol stood in my doorway and started singing, bringing the wolves out of the cupboards. My phone is an octopus, always tangling me in its tentacles. Instagram is a monkey, throwing its shit at me. My mind is a beach house on a cloudy day, these lines are driftwood, drifting words, shift and blur. The smell of cut green grass makes me think of baseball practice when I was young, filling me with sweet melancholy. Sam had a name like a boy’s and an uppercut to match. Meeting you was like being pushed into the ocean. Your love was like a riptide. Your eyes tide pools. This poem is like a poem that isn’t a poem, this poet isn’t alive inside. Jeremy had tattoos on his eyelids, a secret written on his face.  Veronica liked to visit the cemetery to talk to dead people she never knew. My life is a silent movie, the man falling down the stairs, the damsel tied to the track, the villain with a mustache. This ennui is my bomb shelter, keeping me safe from you, or you safe from me? John drove a black Mercedes Benz, treated his employees like Everest sherpas. Kristen went through men like a buffet, leaving half of them on the plate. Karen had a bow on her underwear, if you pull it loose you lose thirteen teeth. I’m an old black and white photograph of a buffalo in a wooden frame sitting in a haunted house outside toxic lands. Everything that is one day won’t be.

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