holy fucking
bleary sway drowse on.
plucking memories out of crusted eyelashes.
waking up to the pine.
my home lathered in unheard commentary.
“Is this how you clean for your mother?”
or
“No curtains? Disgusting. How do you live like this.”
or
“Wow. You drew all of these? You’re so talented.”
oh – yo.
i know her so well —
i know Us so fucking well.
“I wasn’t going to clean for you.”
“Quite easily. Curtains aren’t an essential food group.”
“Thanks. I did this piece recently for his birthday.”
“Nasty. You’re definitely your father’s daughter.”
“I didn’t raise a bruthana.”
“Do you think he’s the one?”
“Between work, gym, and everything else, I lost track of time.”
“Whatever. I don’t care.”
“Can you not?”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I know you don’t care.”
“You’re so secretive.”
I can make her say anything
“Thanks for finally telling me.”
“I don’t get it – but I want to learn.”
“Can I meet her?”
We can never fight again.
This peace
this lack
of new conflict — this bereavement
a willing sacrifice
for the holy fucking pyromaniac in the sky.
leaving behind a coated parchment,
docile charcoal and our next 25 years.
& btw, dear holy fucking pyromaniac in the sky:
yes, floating nearly astral.
smoggy skin & thanks for the useless hope.
but we know,
look — we all know here,
the pining poet’s words are as believable as your existence
-nk