You looked at me like I was a brick wall with
a beating heart,
looking through my shell of a body like a piece
of window glass
with the reflection of my front door slamming you out
of the way.
Every quarter motion of mine echoed through your mind
like old times
on the couch, studying the static from underneath
the TV screen
and your face on the surface of the broken plate dug
into the table.
Your hand sunk into the floorboards reaching for the
phone in shock
when your mother called from the bedside table complaining
she missed you
and everything you used to do with her before you led her to the
brink of insanity.
You’re like an enigma, resembling emotions of a cat
in the litter box
sleeping in its own shit because he would rather torture
himself to death
than watch another second of you barely pulling off
a proper existence.
Technically, I should expect that sort of behavior
from a man
like you, masking pain and shame instead of making
yourself a product
of the twenty-first century and continuing to sit in the back of a theatre
with broken projectors.
Right now, I think you should enjoy the conversations you have
with your brain
that’s been running on fumes from the minute
you found it
on the side of the road chugging a forty like it needed it to
survive being you.