When I’m depressed, everything’s a joke to me, and no one thinks my jokes are funny, and I’m depressed right now, just to warn you.
— Dennis Cooper
I speak better in metaphor than
conversation. For instance,
Invite me for a double-shot mocha espresso
on a Sunday morning when the pouring rainfall
lays the baseline to the nervous symphonies in our chests.
I’ll say: Hey.
You see, I think writing is one of the only things
I could really be good at.
But I’m still trembling in worn seats as
a Pre-Criminal Justice major more at ease with
the concept of holding a .9mm than a ballpoint pen.
I’m still quiet in places where I should be loud,
tentative of compliments when I should be proud,
I’m still terrified of letting go and letting you in.
Because I will cradle your body and miss your calls, I will
kiss you tenderly and catch your fall then set you down
softly and walk the other way. I will say you are better off
with unbroken and cry and push you away yet pull
you inside if you show up at my doorstep that night; I
will call you at 3am and leave you a voicemail telling you
I’m both in love with you and sorry for you and I will call it art.