The biggest relief of books and poems
is that you know when they are finished. Me?
I’m never fucking finished, the sentence
just keeps running when everyone has left
the room, my thoughts follow each other like a litter
of manic kittens clambering out of a bottomless
paper bag. Have you…? Do you…? Did you
know…? Libraries burn and internet archives
can fall into the hole of no-history, real-life memories
melt into the imagery of dreams, and despite all this
I place my faith into the transference of knowledge?
When I was younger, you know, I used to uptalk
even more than I do now, because I wasn’t
sure anyone would swallow what I had to say?
Will you take it with juice, or wine, or water?
Me, I’m never fucking finished, you know?
The sentence just keeps on breathing, adjusting
to the air quality of every city I’ve lived or spent
weekends in—commuter train of thoughts
crossing golden-dead hills, suddenly-running-express
train of thoughts with a mystery puddle on the seat
beside me, Catbus of thoughts opening its furry doors
to take me on the shortcut to everything’s okay again.
Train crossing the bridge over a strip of ocean, or
running right alongside the bay, carrying tired workmen
and children of divorce watching anime on their phones,
there is obviously no suitable terminus for this analogy
because the poem has to end somewhere and—
fucked up!—I have to keep living life
and thinking about it at the same time.

and ran right into her. threw my hands out to protect her
from my full weight—that frame so much more fragile
than my own. baby pink tutu proudly stained
with someone else’s blood. her shoulder digging
into my chest. god how i used to wish my flesh
was strong enough to protect itself. she said look
at me and it hurts and you’re the only one allowed
to call me that. every refrain i’d clasped hands with
hoping to hold onto something bigger than my bones.
have you ever found yourself in being nothing? can you
blow my eardrums out? can you help me self-obliterate?
is this adulthood, is this love? i’m smashing my new name
into someone else’s chorus praying the refrain will give me
iron in my blood enough for one more day, one more decade.