My boyfriend says I drink too much
that I complain, that I’m mean,
that I tease too hard;
that we’re stagnant lately.
We, not I, because I
have been stagnant far longer.
A fetid pool of a dead-
screaming children, melted brain, eyes
glazed-over with a Klonopin shine.
He says I’m not supposed to call my crazy pills
my crazy pills
but they feel like they are
and I like the honesty of that.
Anything that makes you feel (even a little, sometimes) less crazy
you should be allowed to call whatever the hell you want.
He thinks I’m reckless
that boozy night-time desert bike rides and climbs
Well I’m not trying to be sexy
I’m trying to excite
myself by pretending my life feels different than it is.
Blinders off, and I have bloodied knees broken bones a hangover
I suppose it’s also a form of self-punishment,
away my failures
but they multiply
And I hide for fear of judgment
and there is judgment
because I’ve done it.
So people spout big ideas–
so much privilege
so full of opportunity
it’s all a matter of perspective.
Tell me, exactly,
how does one change one’s perspective?
Asking for an enemy.