paint thinners on your dusted shelves.

we killed so many, we
don't care. we stare at
our fingernails as they
stumble upon our windows
(barefoothungryignorantnumband)
half but still
alive. (easy to forget
because having a post-it that says:

be happy because your paint thinner
goes into your paint and not your feelings and
you can actually hate your life because
you still have one

makes you the
target.) note:

buy a nail file

and nobody will guess you
realized your nails were half-chopped as
you were trying to evade the pungent
gaze.


your yellow personal clouds.

(you think) nobody
knows your disappointment
when they started selling

yellow little post-its shaped
like clouds. they looked puffy. but

they were just yellow and rough like
you. it was worthy of
your name as a title as it sat
on the bottom of your
trash-can, a broken imitation, you said

and pulled a square one from the drawer.


morning coffee and the dawn of a new day.

no, tucking your newborn
thoughts inside boxes
is not weird. it is
what they want. forget
that and boil some water.

note: you forgot milk.


march and early bloomers.

silly flowers. they
will wither tomorrow. rain
is coming, said the tv today. silly
flowers.

(please do deny you envy them
because at least they
tried.)


the meaningless quote of a dead man on the board you all laughed
at in a shed-like restaurant.

laugh,
what will you leave behind?


dizzy spells.

maybe it's
the coffee.

maybe it's
your boyfriend that
hisses like a snake and escapes like a rat.

maybe it's
the gypsy that sneezed near you.

maybe it's
your starving yourself to make yourself appealing to your boss.

maybe it's
how you wanted to not grow up.

maybe it's
how you lie to yourself and write those lies on post-its to not forget

maybe it's
how you closed your eyes and tried not to exist.

maybe it's
how you decided to hide it between sex-smelling sheets and coffee beans
and your fingernails.

maybe it's
your post-its. your paint thinners you add into still lives. your coffee
mornings with stillborn children and the trembling hands of the flower seller
on the corner. the god you prefer not to think about. the children you
pass by without looking in the eyes. the man that died long ago, but still is
remembered on the wall of a little restaurant you actually loved so much.

maybe it's
the sound of the traffic too close to you.