Your hands strike a boulevard
Between this place and a place by the sea
I dream slowly
And I drive fast
With a gun in my lap
And your voice stuck in my head
All you asked for was something interesting
Like a kiss at the door
Clothes on the floor
But now I’m tired
Let’s not make love here
Let’s not talk it out
Let’s just not speak at all
We’re both full of what this room is full of
I’ll do my best to look alive
As you sing into my mouth
No, I’m not tired of these songs
It’s a long drive from your parent’s house to the place you started calling home a year ago.
You chew gum to pass the time and sing along to radio songs like nobody’s listening, because nobody’s listening.
You wish you could be the first person to travel Mars, but then you realize you don’t know all that much about Mars and that other people might be more qualified for the adventure.
You realize the stars make sense but they are boring.
You wish you had something interesting to tell at work.
You turn to your phone and type:
“Throw me in the middle of things! Throw me to the ground and step over me! Slam the door in my face like you mean it. Just for once.”
Silly for reading the primers. Silly for knowing exactly how it works. Silly for being vocal about it. Silly for being the only one not invited. Silly for showing up anyway.
How could you say this is easy a year ago?
When you threw tiny bits of pavement on the pavement and smoked just to the pass the time on the back of a truck
Behind a 7-Eleven, thinking about how Prince’s cremated remains were placed into a custom, 3D printed urn shaped like Paisley Park estate.
You just don’t get it anymore.
So you sweat into your dad’s shirt with no intention of giving it back when suddenly
Someone arrives looking beautiful
And they throw you in the middle of things. They throw you to the ground and slam the door shut, because they mean it.
You watch them step over your body and it matters less and less.
Shiny silver pill purse chained around your neck
serve me Cola from the dashboard
and slowdance back to back.
Feed me something electrical
something I cannot digest,
please feed me the moon again
baby, make me lose again.
This night’s a line in pen on jeans
there’s not a minute to redeem.
I’m a hot mess
dancing in refrigerator light
I can blow up in the colors
of your favorite sports team
if you let me.
I owe you, she whispered, addressing Chicago.
You said you’re not here to be saved again
when you moved your karate-life to San Francisco.