Everything Was Fine Until Whatever

~ ~ ~

Nothing Can Make Me Feel Sincere Not Even True Love.

Not even love and not even MTV’s True Life.

I want to be in love but how can I.

I can’t even write a love poem without referring to MTV or Lord of the Rings or something. Plus everyone I know is in love with me a little which makes it hard to think anyone is special.

I just want to wake up in the morning and feel like someone is planning on seeing me.

And I want to like myself through someone else instead of just me all the time.

This is about as sincere as I could possibly be. And it sounds boring and self-assured.

I just want everyone to think I’m on my way to Burger King.

~ ~ ~

It Could’ve Been a Photograph of Anybody.

I created an indentation in my bed where I always sit and write. I think of this indentation as concrete proof that I’ve existed the last several months. It feels like a photograph of myself, but not exactly.

It makes me feel present, but not entirely.

It makes me feel like I’m sitting on a bench with someone I love and we’re holding hands in a strange way where all our fingertips align and we’re talking about a party we might go to and we’re making out a little and I feel kind of bad because I’ve just stolen a lot of cardstock from an art store that I respect.

Everyone thinks I’m brilliant — and I am — but I’m also modest.

~ ~ ~

I’m Not Drunk, I’m Big-Boned.

I want to erase everything I’ve ever written and go rent videos but I can’t because I don’t know what videos to rent.

I am letting myself feel detached right now.

I am always trying to sabotage my own work.

I want to end this, but I haven’t said anything tangible about myself yet.

Okay here is my phone number 707-888-1744.

~ ~ ~

I write poetry because if I don’t I will have to think about serious things.

I used to run track but then I got boobs and couldn’t run because I was very busy buying bras and crying about stretch marks.

But now I have had boobs for eight years and I barely have time to think about them anymore.

Yes, do the math.

I am writing poetry right now so that I can pretend I don’t hear someone doing the dishes.

I used to clean the neighbor’s house for money and she had a vending machine in her garage.

I used to make a magazine about wildlife and I sold a subscription to my neighbor but I got tired of making it so I just cut up parts of Ranger Rick and pasted them onto folded printer paper.

Now I have boobs though. Things are different.

Are you really still doing the math about my boobs?

~ ~ ~

Maybe I’m laughing while I write this because I have no capacity to take anything seriously.

I like poetry because it feels like television. Good poetry feels good like television.

I think it’s really funny to call someone the history channel but I’ve used this joke a lot of times and no one has ever laughed.

No, I’m lying.

When I said no I meant yes and when I said lying I meant ovulating.

This is what I mean by poetry.

My mom is at her house waiting for this poem to earn me some money.

We love each other because we look like each other.

I never take myself seriously because I’m not boring enough.

But I am boring enough to sit at a computer for hours typing out explanations of myself.

I should measure my heartbeat or something.

~ ~ ~

Even on Christmas I try to be in a text message conversation at all times.

Christmas trees can be enjoyed for about one day and after that it feels like someone is on their way over to cross their hands over their crossed knees and look at you expecting answers.

One day I will be a supportive friend but for now I’m still playing with the poetry refrigerator magnets.

Alone please, and yes I’ve heard of exquisite corpse.

I’m making it seem like I don’t like my friends but I don’t like anything except photographs of orphans.

My mom wants me home for Christmas but I want it to be my idea.

I want everyone to read this poem and say I bet her tits are real.

~ ~ ~

I have started a band and my gimmick is I only write songs about the neighbor’s dog and pretend to be displacing my emotions.

Once I overheard my mom telling my aunt that I was a mistake and I revealed myself from the Lego castle I was crouched behind and told her what I’d heard and she said, “What do you want, I’m only five or six years older than you.”

I will listen to hours and hours of insignificant rambling if you want, but I won’t stop rubbing my mustache until you tell me how you feel about me and my mustache.

I have collection agencies fighting for my attention. Where is my minivan? I just found rockstar parking. Please call Geico and tell them I’ve found someone else. Tell the paparazzi I am in parking section G4 and that I’m picking my camel toe.

I could be charming and sociable if I wanted but then I wouldn’t be mysterious anymore and anyway I’m too busy with my band.

I’ve been asked to write inspirational slash instrumental music for a colon hydrotherapy clinic and I will be getting paid in paper pillowcases and paper bed sheets.

~ ~ ~

Is Everyone Ready to See My Muscles?

Sometimes when I think I’m in love I think, “Wait, no I’m not.”

It seems that I have gotten carried away with my own ridiculous projections of who the person is. No one can fulfill my projections. That’s just science.

Anyways, people only love each other so they can complain about each other.

I asked my mom straight up, “What is it exactly that you like about my paternal uncle, who you have been dating for five years, since around the time I first met my dad and he introduced us to his brother, my uncle, your boyfriend?”

I’m a strong and independent woman, not a dyke.

I’m confused about my sexuality, not my sexual orientation.

As in, is this my labia minora? It seems big.

Or should I be running out of lube this quickly?

My left arm is asleep but I am moving forward with this poem anyway.

Can I carry your children for money?

Would you like to harvest my eggs for money?

Or do you need a babysitter?

everyone told me i looked different today. my mom said this is because maybe i’m ovulating.

she said maybe i’m either happy or ovulating.

~ ~ ~

The moral of the story is, do you think I’m fat?

I want to know everything you know about me, what does it mean that I talk the way I talk, does that affect you, I’m serious, I’m honest, I’m that selfish, I’m really curious about this.

You always tell me who I am, I like that, it makes me like you, I want to be more like what I seem like to you, I like that version of me, it makes me be able to stand you.

Let’s talk about my feelings and then your feelings about me.

I used to like small glass figurines, I collected them, it got a little out of control, I ran out of places to display them, does that give you any insight here?