Being reduced to cardboard & cashmere wool
I couldn’t believe she’d ever felt safe enough to fall asleep next to me
Snoring the way our mountains slowly moved as I’d chop you down to a monogram
Ensuring you’d stand for something beyond my incessant rambling
I remember the small pauses before polishing your naval with speeches of protest
I would read your lips and study the clock as your belly grew bold and buckles grew grotesque
I fevered with patterns though I promised you rock
Encumbered by my heavy flesh
Constantly pulling on my skin to make sure I’m still existing
I made sure that even our god damn trash looked good
Spewing sounds and rounds from my mouth like a machine gun
Like speeches of keeping my fucking name…
Singing to songs too times too fast
The way that children do
As if we were gifted the same unknowing of a metronome
Growing up is and outdated idea
God is an art form
We became pregnant with pragmatic principles
Where as: The sorting of socks
Where as: Taking time for leaves to fall on our chest
Either swaying in the pew, or in the bathroom stall, taking pulls from pocket shots, beer cans, cigarettes and all…
…Got is an art form.
Falling asleep…. right next to me….
Self sacrifice is something for casinos.