I can live and be sad now and usually, I don’t drink my coffee black,
tinkering with milk and sugar like I love myself.

The way they work me to the bone for the legal least
feels personal.
I take it personal that humanity is this cruel.

On days off we take advantage of the possibility of laziness
trying it on like we can afford to live like this, an impossibly soft fur coat in a department store dressing room.

Alone in the bed the cool sheets comfort and smooth my working city body,
ironing wrinkles out of a button down shirt.

(We were once little dreaming of sleeping on clouds,
knowing it was possible).

My bones yell at me and I yell back, a child on a step stool, fists balled.
They creak like clattery day of the dead skeletons and I don’t wanna hear it.

I spray strangers counters with a spray that smells like margaritas
and they follow me around, spinning words around my head.
They ask my opinion so they can practice their rebuttal skills on someone who doesn’t matter.

Some days are like floating,
sometimes everyday words seem to turn into love songs.
Some days my body is so tired the piles of garbage on the sidewalk look like a good enough place to rest for a minute.

My insides are gray and the horizon is closing in
until all I can see is a slit of light, a gun’s laser beam.
Spitting up on light
and inhaling office dust,
the ocean is real but it’s dirty and a daydream away.

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