the comeback collection

i. love: a one room concept if the doors are open

effort seems hard and foreign and extremely far and supremely hard my reaching capacity and wingspan are limited by the degrees and my ability to cope with my inability is scarce and problematic i do recognize the nature of this but is it my fault that camo is in leave it to conflict to make me write again i am an avid avoider and an avant-garde gatekeeper of all things get-to-know-me and if the doors are open listen for the ticking sound there is a timer and the countdown is chanted by everyone who would like to see you take on your dreams and master them everything feels severed and if you don’t find the body parts before the rain then you will end up friendless because nobody likes a self amputated heartless architect who makes every room lack a door to be clear everybody hates me

ii. the heat wave

i look at the piles of heat on my body and ask “what the fuck are you looking at?” i attack myself unknowingly and openly so that others know to mess with me i put myself on the tightrope but at least i’m first in line so i am the winner of the hundredth ticket and i earn my trip to forever i try a perfect match with the blinds on my window and i never manage to grow an inch on them but you tap in at the end of anything and it folds up fully perfect you don’t buy someone flowers unless you feel guilty for not growing them trees but i’m still waiting to be taught which phase of the moon is best for harvesting my feelings which often go unheard because apparently actions are not only louder than words and just you wait until the morning birds by your bed stop singing because they’ve got ladybugs in between their beaks

iii. the border line 

there are no pigeons drinking today on the rooftop bar the city moisturized itself and nature named it sobriety i am not supposed to step foot outside but i swing my feet on the ledge and the border calls me her friend i don’t call her back i have no intention of connecting further but i reach out to every living thing around me looking for the right religion to follow i find the scraps of an old belief and i dare to believe only in myself and my god disappoints me when i come home to half views of the dirty river i will never hold my breath in and i get lonely so i make like the city and beg nature to name me with kindness

iv. the helmet 

i wear the head of a pegasus on mine so i can learn how to bake wings the way that my grandmother did my grandma never lived in new york city in her twenties she will never know what it’s like to have to wear a helmet to bed so that the dream doesn’t go flying and i’m still learning how to seal my eyes i’ve seen nothing less than perfection my entire life and i am still not so perfect i’ve watched people use the right amounts of everything and i have seen their wings still have trouble rising i have trouble getting up from bed sometimes so it helps that the dream learned to fly

v. the pattern 

my feelings of inadequacy are deep rooted and seldom skinny avenue cats today i walked with less purpose than ever before and i lied to the fireflies about it when they asked who knew my secret i said i told two people a newborn and a dying woman you’d be surprised which of the two opened their mouths i hate to be forgiven much less deserving and currently i am neither and this sparks my hatred for those who ever have been pardoned especially the ones who didn’t kneel and stretch out their fifty hail mary’s so the apology could last a lifetime i don’t have childhood friends because my love was often interrupted so i can only write when i revert back to my norm which is never-happiness and i give in so easily when life grabs me by the dick and says go fetch because of habit because i always knew that at the end of fetching was a treat and a treat has been my meal of the day before but i will never talk to my male psychiatrist about eating disorders i am afraid he will discontinue my prescription and i will end up very mad at the world because i am in support of insubordination