derekpoetrydump | (no subject)

It is April again

I've been coy about it. Romantic, even.
Reporting the whisperings of lives more involved
than mine. Edward walks the duck pond
A quarter mile from my house
Every Saturday, but we haven't shaken hands
Since 2007. I don't think we're friends any more.
The month returns like a bad meal,
like 3am memories, like shame; I remember the birthday
of the boy whose dick was more
in my thoughts than his heart was.
It's been decades but I still can't reach my bones.
They don't tell you how fat rots.
It is April again and for years
All I've wanted is sleep.
Screaming for sustenance, crying
over waistbands, bitter about the way
hair on the body chases hands from the same;
I remember Katherine and the four hour naps she took
to escape her own thoughts.
How can you need to escape something so shallow and half-formed?
Artificial rain drowns the torrent outside; I am awake for half of the sunrises
And half of the sunsets, but never
On the same day.
It is April again and I don't have arms long enough
To keep my friends in a chokehold
Somewhere between abandonment
And honesty.
Birds with black button eyes consume my waking life; gently filleting cheap peanuts,
Two thirds of unconditional love now lies dead, and the third piece is insane.
How times don't change.
I write reminders: you have to let go of the rope,
but my hands are blistering
rope-burnt, and cramped in place.
There is no early exit from the human race
Once you're trapped in it.
This too shall pass
This too shall peel back the meaningless hours
With "unprecedented" stamped on every fresh page
We are writing the worst future;
I want to tell my teenage self
You were right about everything. Every last thing, you were right about.
But I can't bear the idea
That she might love me for it.