Grocery list of my amassed disappearances this month:
keys, blue striped pants, 10 lbs, love.
I’ve bought only two items with my remaining dollar—
eggs and SSRIs.
Sometimes, I wish I could take a chalkboard eraser
to the aftermath of touching.
To chocolate coffee on Sundays, the difficulties of earbuds,
the thirst for the blackhole O facial expression.
Open a can of worms—not the jumping plush kind.
The ones that have an endocrine system. Didn’t your mother
tell you not to touch dead things?
At what point does a flesh light have eyes, a mouth, orange peels
in her fingernails? I want to kiss the door handle for always being
unlocked and facing the street.
Counting my losses started like this:
the tenderness changed when his eyes shot red for the ceiling
and the stars in them dimmed out.
You are no longer theirs.
You are no longer there.
My dad paid me a buck to touch a trapped molded mouse.
Maybe I thought there was going to be some consolation this time.