/ DAYS 81 – 82 /

Every once in an aeon, someone asks me ‘do you think you deserve love?’. Always post-seeing inside my ghost heart.  Maybe I don’t have the answer tattooed on my aorta like other people. I don’t know what the circulatory system of someone who casually carries romance on red blood cells to their brain to make lovers smile back at their upturned lips looks like. I imagine Grey’s Anatomy for the whole-hearted but I got a zero in med school. All my arteries are apparitions, have heart attacks that are more atmospheric than a cause to cry ambulance about. Maybe they ask because they can see how I’ll always pause, because the answer changes. Meaning, I don’t have it.  I have the answer to every other question. I self-actualized seven years solo and I scripted every conversation in my head I could ever have except the ones that never seemed like they could be real. You know, the real human ones. Romance. Stability. Surviving in the arms of anyone to have an anniversary of any kind, like once. Because, see, I’m one of the bad ones. And you feel lucky because it lets you leave me. I’m an enormous collection of cells and stares I had while struggling, all smushed into a barrier of skin I always think’s about to break.

IF I WAS ONE OF THE GOOD ONES
I DON’T THINK YOU’D LIKE ME

I’M ONE OF THE BAD ONES
AND THAT’S WHY YOU FEEL LUCKY

I ache to know every day if I’m likeable. Not likeable, enough. Likeable at all. I look at me in the mirror and I like me, no lie. So, I lay me down in the corneal gaze of everyone, and be charming, cantankerously cute–a human you hanker to have to buy bedsheets with, to hold your hand in them while you Netflix and Chill. I analyze every milLisecond of every interaction I have with someone else’s neurons and the way my actions and antics caused their neurostransmitters to attack their mouth muscles to sneer, smile or say adios to ever seeing me again. I want to do better, be better–all the time. I take responsbility for my fuckups. Still, I think if I was one of the good ones, one of the every day people, I don’t think you’d like me. Because I wouldn’t like me. I talk like I write. My mind and eyelids move rapid. I scare people because I don’t sit and lounge in small talk. I skinny dip and spelunk into straight up serious philosophy.

GIVE IN TO THAT EASY LIVING
GOODBYE TO MY HOPES AND DREAMS

WE COULD WAIT UNTIL THE WALLS COME DOWN
IT’S TIME TO GIVE A LITTLE TO

THE KIDS IN THE MIDDLE

Maybe I’m just a rebel just for kicks these days. Maybe I could be less of a presciently, ‘precious’ person. Be likeable. Eesh, I got all those words all up in my gaze and I couldn’t believe them for a nanosecond. So, I exited out a sigh because I keep having this endless conversation with me. I survived comas and ceasing to exist on a hospital bed for seVen minutes all to be berate me about being one of the bad ones. Ridiculous, but I have bad experiences being with people and they with me and I don’t know how to have good ones, be one of the good ones anymore. I desere love, but if being with people keeps breaking me, I think the answer to the question is a rhetorical ‘Do I even need it anymore?’

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