Trapped in my head and I can’t get out and I know this is a cliche
all poets of note and many of no mention at all are trapped
I am not alone in this predicament
I am a comrade
but that is no great comfort if the war we fight is between purposefully sad or wastingly happy
changing nothing
waking up from that safe pretend euphoria
and going numb
My cold bride,
My dark eyed post-love,
My late friend,
Do you feel when you write your poems about some mysterious ‘him’ that dumped you via the telephone before putting his crude inebriated tongue and bittersweetly sober heart on tape?
Did you ever feel me or was I the totem for your pretend euphoria?
Did you wake up
In my bed
and go numb from the night before’s pretend euphoria?
Was I a little boy? Lonely and longing for a semblance of control?
If that’s the case
only you can say for sure
and you were a doll
in my dollhouse
I could not see my grip on you or yours on me
I’d had sex before, as you know
but never with the meaning you gave to it
In my childish heartfelt delusion
our pubescent lovemaking was mature
we were adults, you said
but me
I had just been born
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