Even though I cannot see your face
Nor place my fingers upon your skin;
I am here; craving your words, your
Warmth, the small smile in the dark,
So damn sweet
As if still children; we would play on the
Playground, eat unwashed apples, and
Ride our bikes, dangerously…
Need something here to make the poem sing
I am here craving that ping.
Stupid ping.
Which means someone gave/gives
a fuck…Someone loves me, or wants
To fuck; I wanted to tell you…
I had a telehealth psych consult today.
100 up to 150 and so the Zoloft lifts and flies away with a
Little girl trailing…. behind
Goddamn… If I could only get near you.
Press myself into you. I would baby.
Maybe kiss you. That’s kinda
Nice to think but
All I have to offer really are my kisses.
My saturated genius broke/bloat
Brain gone so far past the blood/brain
Barrier. Serves me right
the Paranoia I share.
This is tricky. Picking a scab like a tick
Don’t lose it in your hair…
tomorrow I will hate this poem…
You don’t like it either—–then
fuck you—-omg
Did I say that out loud, about the picking of the scalp
Fuck
How I love u despite the platitudes…
I make u oatmeal, and eggs. The man/child-
in you refuses to eat it. I gain 30
pounds in the face of…
The face of…
Baby. Come. Hold me. In the
Dark night. I am lost.
I am so lost messy unhinged they might call it
The woman who loves you is hurting
Your online woman is hurting.
Photo by Meghan Hessler on Unsplash
