Lazy Eye 

I’m tired. You can tell me anything
and I’ll listen like it’s the last time I’ll ever see you - because here, in this place,
there is always something about to fall from the sky -
about take the words inside me and scatter them all over the fucking place like dust, the kind of dust
that sneaks up on you in your sleep
                             (you don’t know they’re there until you start spitting them up
                                little by little, until you start choking on them like dry vomit)

so I’ll listen and I won’t have any words for you when you’re done
                                                                                    because I’m tired,
but you need to understand that I am running out of things to say all the time;
that there are things you see that I can’t see
because I’m blind and full of guilt and shit and full of the feeling of
never
     being
            full
and friends are made for this - 
to feel the things you can’t bear to feel when you’re conscious
to tell stories that couldn’t possibly be yours 
and mothers - they are there to heal and to teach and to scold 
to give you a story 
because without them, you wouldn’t have a story to tell
and they have their own stories that they can’t ever tell you,
and there are things you can’t ever tell them and some stories you can
and some will make them proud
and some will make them weep
but either way, you try to be proud of the part that they’ve written for you in their blood
and lovers are there to make you feel complete
to know something about yourself that you don’t want them to know
to fill a void in you,
to make a home for themselves inside of you
even if they don’t necessarily fit, but
                                                         fuck it
you’ll take anything to make you feel a little more whole
even if that means losing parts of yourself in the process
even if it means at the end of everything, you’ll be missing a leg,
hobbling for the rest of your life, 
living off of imaginary disability checks because
you don’t need to work again
now that you’ve learned how to live with the constant weight of someone’s absence sitting on your chest like a fucking dead body.

It’s like having phantom limb syndrome for a person, or a feeling, or a memory that you keep repressing
so you develop a compulsion like writing poetry and when the sea inside of you starts swelling,
when your mind starts raging,
you can quell it -
but it only lasts for so long until the addiction calls you back again
and it’s like God is on the other line telling you to fucking pick up the phone because it’s been too long since you’ve done that 
so you do
and the line is dead
but you still have a pack of cigarettes in your pocket
and you keep filling your lungs with shit just to feel something other than your own fucking feelings,
even if that something is worth nothing,
worth less than nothing,
                                     but at least
                                     you won’t be
                                     tired
                                            anymore.

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