A lot to stress about,

a lot to feel doubt.

        A lot to feel mad about,

a lot to see bad. But now

        be glad, the 20-20 impairment is a sad

illusion,

        all the confusion's pursuant to the pollution

that's making the collective voice seem muted.

        So expect a choice true and

good and beautiful, Plato's holy trinity.

        Just feeling dutiful. 

Thus appealing to the funeral of

        it-which-ought-not-be-named

that sustains these chains and enslaves the

        lion by its mane, so the main aim in this

space on history's present page is simply to

        reclaim the divine grace that made

our humanity.

        Oh the profanity.

No, I'm blabbering. But reality's shivering

        in the blubbery bankwhale's belly, bellowing,

wailing, quivering, and waiting for the statement that will

        replace this state with aer recentibus infinite.

I thought I was different—better, even—than before.

But he says I'm not.

So I guess I'm not.

I just thought I was.

And if I'm not, if I truly haven't progressed, I guess I'm more delusional than I thought.

My mom sends me letters and cards each day to remind me that I'm worthy, that I'm good, that I'm loved.

I thought I was.

But he says I'm not.

So I guess I'm not.

I'm not.

I say mean things to him, like

Go fuck yourself

when I feel ignored,

Hope your boss' pussy is sweeter than mine

when he goes out for drinks with coworkers instead of having dinner with me,

Thanks for calling to check in on me! You're so considerate!

when I don't hear from him while I'm laying in bed sick.

I do these things to hurt him

when I'm hurting

and I don't understand why.

I thought I didn't understand, but it's because I'm a monster.

Because he told me that.

And I've thought that.

Then convinced myself that it wasn't true.

But then he reminded me of that.

So I think that now.

I guess I'm a monster.

Why else would I act like one?

He says I deny accountability for my actions.

But I thought I was pretty good at admitting fault.

I thought I was.

But he said I'm not.

So I guess I'm not.

I'm not.

I thought he could love me like I loved him.

I thought he could.

He said he did.

So he did.

I just fucked that up.

He said he's sick of me crying wolf,

playing the victim.

I didn't think I was.

But he said I was, said he was sick of it.

So I am.

So am I.

I thought I wasn't always like this.

He didn't say I wasn't.

So I guess I have been.

I think I've always been.

He thinks I'm poisonous.

I think I am too.

I think that I think I am,

I do.

After all, he said it

so it's true.

other people go about trying to get you to flinch

to crack a smile

to magick an amused snort out of your stone facade.

they don't look at

the veins standing out in your cheeks

or the way your hair feels like you haven't washed it in days.

i should switch your shampoo.

they brag about hearing your laughter

but only because they don't hear it often.

they crow about seeing your smile

only, it is a fixed sight in my world.

i can see past the outside of stone

and see the naive, broken wonder inside.

you don't know anything.

i want to protect you, from those who are only here

for your false smile, your fake laughter.

i am here for you.

and so every time they brag, "i have coaxed a smile out of stone!"

i can congratulate them, smile gently

and know that i am pygmalion

i have brought the stone alive.