I pour myself into her photograph,
drunk on jealousy, dreaming of
this life that should be mine. I
do not tend to have Havisham
eyes when it comes to bruises,
but sometimes I bleed absinthe,
sick with better versions of myself.
This thief has my everything;
she is the Sunday best me every day.
I bet she bubbles. I bet the right
words pour out of her mouth
all the time.I bet when she
looks at you she cuts you.
She is a shadow you
will never catch, and
I only pretend to be intangible.
Since she exists,
how can I be satisfied with these
messy hands and tennis-ball eyes?
My heart is invalidated by my inadequacy.
How can I be satisfied with these
clumsy words, the wrong curves,
this awkward poem?
You know, They lied.
It does get better than me.
(Today this doesn’t seem difficult.)