You are a transient dream, never lasting,
Unbeknownst to me,
Asking me how long it has taken for me to get here
I am hesitant to tell you how I had to make
A Faustian bargain or how I had to pawn off
My light brick radio that
Only played Velvet Underground
to afford a kayak to get to where you are
When I finally see you in this new hazy mome
at the world's end, in an
’80s-themed cranberry Holiday Inn.
Right now, it is too early in June
For the runaways to feel this akin
to wait for moments
That never ended up happening.
and it is too deep in the morning
To look in the mirror and find
A past version of me that
only ever wanted to be a runaway.
​
​
So I have decided to leave you.
With a bell jar filled with poorly represented feelings.
and an inquiry into the nature of our kind of pain
Will reveal
You have built your world with such perfect pieces that
I have now made peace with the fact
There is no place for me there
I have been so many people over the years
Thinking back on all of them
Makes me feel disconcerted
The constant repetitive ringing
inside of my head has heightened so much
That I can not distinguish anymore
Between the incidents of the
Past or the present.
To cease this repetitive ringing
I write out a lament in Letraset
on lost feelings, past memories,
​I have conjured all of my misplaced guilt
and enclosed it in satin Armour-wrapped
Around 19th-century mysticism.
The armour, now ruptured, reeks of repugnancy all throughout.
I have taken all my Rationalizations
and stamped them all over my egotistical whims,
Which have caused them to mutilate into​
A crash site in excess of artificial keepsakes.
Velouria, an amnesiac,
Is constantly on 18 mg of
Percocet and LSD,
and Believes that the world
at its core, it is merely symbolic.
She dreams of a
New resurgent world,
Born out of a casualty
There are other ways for people to fall apart
That does not end up with your father killing himself.
And decades later, somewhere in Munich,
A woman leaves a hundred angry voicemails
and starts to hypothesise about how self-inflicted abuse
is just a desperate annotation of self-love.​
When you choose not to reply to them,
She weighs her chances of ever getting a reply against
​
We have over-romanticized the
Idea of intimacy so much
That I cannot tell you any more
How I am going to apply for a plea of release
From all your held-up resentments,
Your frequent disorientation,
and the constant exhaustion
When you laughed and said that
All of Kodaline’s songs are hopeless,
and people cannot save us
I did not think about how
I have choked on every opportunity at love
And drowned countless plants in the names
of those who have left,
How the plants died soon after,
​
In a less politically charged world,
Globalization did not gulp my father's apology
For never being there,
And my mother's antique store never sold
Hemlock dining tables or vinyl records of
Laughter and forgetting
and she never contemplated her abonnement issues
​
​