a fast fucker, a fast smoker,
a fast eater, a fast leaver,
the quiet awkward pause
in a crowd full of screamers,
always looking for corners, it’s
lighter without all these people
a slow sleeper, a nervous speaker,
a loud listener, a lousy writer,
would breathe all the green
in but it’s not around often
enough, would laugh out
sunshine but this charcoal
ground of a mind is stuck,
would scream all these pink
flames into my skin but both
dusty ashtrays in my chest
gasp for their last breath.
there’s someone alive,
glued in my calendar,
just flip it years backwards,
ask the dates what they
came along with, grab each
tuesday by the collar,
serenade septembers into
nostalgic melodies, mash all
the fridays into one blob of
scrolling through others’ fun,
back up all the sundays for
being so unbearable, choke
all this loneliness for proving
itself so comfortable, so
consistent, crashing into
every party uninvited.
there’s a lump in my chest,
in my throat, in my words,
between every other pair
of eyes. it sticks out and
stays in. it breaks open
when the clock whispers
“not now, please, any
other time.” it feeds on
avoiding purpose. lose this.
a broken child, a cautious driver,
a stone-cold lover, a soft stranger,
maybe all these colors mean
nothing at all, maybe all this
purple was for the bruising,
the sky blue for the storms.
this job is over, stop labelling
meanings, stop fucking off.
if you could paint yellow over
this poem, please, grab a bucket,
splash.