CONSENT FORM FOR MY BODY.
My body is a weekend cathedral used to forgive your sins and take half your week’s pay out of artificial guilt.
I’m kidding. That’s too deep. Forgive me, I am a new species Neurotic and experimental used as the punch line for an intelligent quantum form larger and more meaningful in one second of existing than I have been my whole life.
This isn’t what I wanted to say. Luckily I can always fool myself into just one more poem because it has something I don’t know what to say and every moment is a reminder I don’t often know what to say.
Understand that when you touch me, at any given time, you are aware that my being a part of these bones astounds me. I mean,
ashames.
Sometimes I think independently and discover things not covered in 60 Minutes and late night talk shows or sold as an IKEA collector’s edition of a degenerate girl convinced it’s possible for words to still mean something.
Sometimes the only thing that lets me sleep at night is when I’ve ended a poem with a neatly tucked metaphor snug in place, ready to beat wildly at the bars of people’s ribs. It means tonight I’ve said something impressive enough to deserve a second thought.
It is equally a terrifying gift and a thankless curse to be born with,
especially when you die just to find out after so long you didn’t really say anything after all.
