you say my name
The only time you say my name
is when you are furious the hard
s is hot oil and smoke you push me
in the shopping cart at the end of the world
the shelves are empty you tell me accountability
is a deal breaker. The cheap metal shoves my shoulder
blades you tell me to stop being a brat
it stopped being cute last march.
The center of my 20s is housing instability
or maybe watching the world pandemic
& is it worth saying
our first memory was 9/11?
the second is a cold swimming pool.
Now you just sound like my father he kicked me out
two months after we met and exploded
you push me towards apocalypse with that word: accountability.
What am i supposed to do with a word i’ve never felt?
the shelves are empty and we’re behind the glass
everyone in this central florida town
they run around us because there is no water
but so much candy.
ten days before i am disowned my head spins three days after i am disowned (my mother
on the phone screaming i am sick) i am sick & the world (sick) starts to spin
again, but faster again, but full time
it’s the crystals in my ears it was the roadtrip the mountains the badlands the arizona desert that goddamn fire that plane to new york the altitudes or all three fill up ear canals full
of fluid the ocean & mother’s wet, young blood (how dare you write that) straight to my brain & suffocate