Sittin’ on the kitchen counter with something a bit unhinged in his eyes,
with just enough recent redness around the edges to suggest not twinkle nor cheer,
but rather tears and fears aplenty,
cigarette in one hand several empty gestures in the other,
Daniel said Friend,
you should start writing again.
And I said No,
I’m done with doing that forever.
I’ll never put pen and paper together again,
my friend,
you can take my word for it.
Now get off the counter you goddamn piece of shit.
…
Leanin’ there in the doorframe as if she owned the place,
as if she’d totally spaced on all the times I’d told her to eat shit and die,
her face made up way too much with candied hate and rage,
and every sort of sugarcoated crime and vice and lie,
Liz said Friend,
you should start writing again.
And I said No,
like I just said I’m done with that.
I’ll never write again,
you're not my friend,
and you're not welcome here.
Now go eat shit and die you fucking piece of shit.
…
Convulsin’ on the floor in the throes of panic over there in the corner,
rocking and rolling and writhing and keeping time with the likes of anxiety,
depression,
and schizophrenia,
all of the others together said Friend,
you should start writing again.
And I said No,
and this is the last time I’m gonna say it,
I will never write again,
I’m done with doing that,
forever.
Now please just leave me the fuck alo—
…
…
…
Reflectin’ back at me in the mirror,
looking right back at me with bloodshot eyes eerie in strabismus,
and facepaints in the colors of anger and chronic pain,
and all manner of quiet madnesses now clamoring for the next battle,
me myself and I and Liz and Daniel and all of the others together we all said Friends,
we should start writing again.
…