i'm not f-ing special, or even the normal kind.
i notice when you're not around
i notice the birds take dumps on the sidewalk by
my front door, i see where your truck spilled its guts
on the street-it looks like a portal to Ketchikan.
sometimes it just looks like your car is sick
and needs me sitting shotgun-
that's all there is besides the flat bed
which is rather bumpy and dangerous,
when you put the both of us back there.
you want all of me to go outside and
look both ways for you-
i want to lock things up, take pills that end with pm
and duct tape the fibroid cysts on my feelings.
aren't we silly enough? do we have to sing
songs about what we are to each other, look
at our feet while words are up high, circling our ears,
because death wrote a note -it was here.
you set fire to anything that looks or acts like me;
i'm not partial to ashes, but if they smell like camp
in a suitcase i am going to encourage you.
also, i love the flames and i need to see them
hold your hand
when you start the engine.
i need to know you'll forget about the cramp
in my shin, the bump in my wrist i rub around you.
you love the crumbs i drop, not the snacks i hold
on this rhythmic road trip.
the only blood spilled was from my voice;
i chewed your new song without
trimming the fat
when i bit down, you healed.
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