because it feels like pulling invisible threads
through clogged pores or dry heaving foreign
objects of nothingness lodged somewhere
between the throat and chest cavity. I hate
poetry occasionally for the way it leaves my
ego wrung dry and desperate and my frame
brittle and these red eyes glazed over entirely
as if they have seen too much to hold any of it.
There are days when excavating the mind for
the most worthy words feels like an errand left
to run or another heart left to break reluctantly
and be done with forever, killing something real.

I’d like to write about flowers tonight or how
we witnessed the first real sunset all winter
through the blinds of your apartment kitchen
or how I hate everything about the past few years
except meeting you and loving you and keeping
you. Or maybe something about how I miss home
but don’t at the same time because everything there
reminds me of everything I’ve lost and being there
makes me pray I could give up my history, but I can’t,
because doing so would mean killing something real.

Nights like tonight everything I write feels pitiful,
like crying at the dentist or not knowing what to say
when someone new asks me where I’m from. I hate
poetry some days because no matter how hard I try
to pull those invisible threads through my skin once
and for all, I lose grip. They slip back in, pointless
to the point of no return, objects of nothingness.

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