The big D; a poem

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-

end job

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

and falls

are unattractive.

Well I’m not trying to be sexy

I’m trying to excite

myself by pretending my life feels different than it is.

Blinders on.

Blinders off, and I have bloodied knees   broken bones   a hangover

as souvenirs.

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.