they call me gorgeous
if he said it i would call it true
they call me mean, orange, ugly and nympholeptic
it don't sting one bit unless he hears it
they've got nothing on me
not with judgment, charts or antiseptic
not jury, not trial, not the electric chair
not fucking macy's day parade
i don't care

what if everything exploded

i live in bathrooms
i own all the typos in the world
i have a laughable fear of the explosion
which happens every damn day
what if everything exploded

i have a boyfriend
he comes with a fruit basket
with booze and cigarettes and friends
it keeps us together.

the wholeness of the world
keeps me from falling into its parts
the seams are invisible
they sow them with trickery
its a blinding shiny mess

dont you wish you could be that guy
the one that remembers your face
and has all his injun books he reads
the guy that reads the injunbooks

For Thursday.

I realize that I don't have the courage anymore to write or to dream or to be alone.
I don't know how to get the things inside of me out, or what they are. I know this because I don't have the ability to be alone anymore, to be with them, to be with anyone. I don't have myself. I never had myself but now I don't understand the nature of the thing that grasps me. I don't know what it is that keeps me in an unhappy state when I am alone, or what keeps me from being with other people, or what exactly it is I am trying to prove by actually just getting through the daily depression, by turning small tasks into benedictions, small, unimportant blessings of not happiness but not unhappiness. I guess the faith I have against my mind has taken me farther than some other depressed or chemically imbalanced people that I know, but I don't believe in faith, really, or any of that imaginary relationship with something greater than yourself (which is nothing, by the way) bullshit, but we have to work against ourselves somehow. I just only have that much courage now: not to have a more fulfilling experience which requires considerable bravado, but to make it through the day. These are the things I can do.
I have certain things that I use, namely people, to step on, like a ladder, to keep away from myself. I have certain tendencies, addictions, intense desires, that stem from a horrible, illogical terror of being alone with myself, of being still and radiating with pain from my chest outward while lying on my bed all day in one position, on my side, like a middle aged housewife or a very unhappy old person. The amount of pain I look at in my future is what scares me. The amount of insufferable, small, nagging, unimportant, present pain of everyday life that will continue, unabated until I'm dead, for every moment of every day, because I don't have enough faith to let go of it but too much to kill myself. That may all change. That's just for today. For Thursday.