what’s the number according to whose measure?

Look at me perform my sorrow! It weighs more

than a dead rabbit. You should know. You built the scale. Or I did

& give you all the credit. Take it. Relate to it. I don’t know what my text messages mean

anymore, it’s more about the gesture of texting. Of making meaning. Of sitting at the bar & bitching about the bar. Or recounting how much more interesting I was

when I made terrible sexual decisions. But I left him in the bathroom. But I admitted that things are well, that I want this & I mean it.

But I don’t know what that means when everything feels meaningless, or is meaningless & I am endowing the everything with meaning

which seems like a plastic gesture. I walked past a homeless man who stank of his own urine & really wanted to piss myself

so I could be in a Chelsey Minnis poem.

I wanted to eat bacon.

I wanted to tell the teenager that it’s cool to have “no shame” until you get hungry, or until you realize the very limited scope of your “no shame.”

My shame is the weight of a dead rabbit & I measured the pinata myself.

Anything you do to make money in some way makes you a whore. I will whore out my language skills. It won’t be a conversation, it won’t be art. It won’t be health insurance, or money. I won’t be doing I what I love

but I wasn’t anyway.

& maybe it will add up to “love,” or its byproducts. Unfunking brunches. A yard from which I can watch the stars & feel good about feeling this small. Tomatoes. Offspring. A living room about which I can brag.

A wedding & I will tell no one–

We construct all meaning. Neat. What happens when we agree or don’t or need to agree

& there are no answers. I will shun the vast possibilities & spin the positive

storyline. I didn’t forget to turn on my headlights. It’s a job. A new skill. I can wear my green pants there. Eat lunch. Have two days off with P. We will still move in together, I don’t need to trap him in it–

but I ought to trap myself. Look at me perform my sorrow / I swear I don’t want to–




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