With love

Poetry

Paranoyd At The Function

I’ve lost my touch.

I hate to break it to you, I’m

armed to teeth.

I hate to break it to you, I’m

driving from the back seat.

I hate to break it to you, I’m 

a dead ringer for the doorman.

Web MD told me I already died.

We throw our flat beer, our lives

down the drain. I had to step outside 

because I didn’t fit the bill, 

because there were too many bands on the bill.

Love is not poetic. Neither are psychiatrists.

Who knew the grimace of a crowded room

was as invasive as a potato gun?

Every corner of the room was my safe space,

my sleeping pill.

I say help me

not knowing whether help looked 

like a life raft 

or a shot gun.

Elizabeth Hsieh