In some cases, it may cause
coma or death. Other cases
include heart disease and rhythm
problems. You may experience
bleeding disorders from the
head or hands. Sudden vision
loss is common, as well as
erections that are painful
and last 4 hours or longer.
When he fucks your best
friend, take one every hour
until you feel chest pain or a
heavy feeling, pain spreading
to the arm or shoulder, nausea,
sweating, and a general
feeling of terror. Ignore the
back aches. Ignore the
curious way he looks in the
store windows as though
the mannequins want
to sleep with him. Ignore
the numbness, everyone has
numbness. When he gives you
flowers, he has also given you
Herpes. Ignore it, you can steal
a new vagina or dick. When you
develop sores in the mouth and
throat, embrace it, a world is
protruding from your chest.
When your headaches worsen,
leave the house like a bird.
Eat leaves and grass. Grab
and bite children. In some
cases, he will take you to the
doctor's, explain your severe
confusion to everyone, and they
will spend the entire time talking
about the skin around your eyes.
Get AIDS to spite him. In
some instances, you will
discover the difference
between fucking and falling
into one another. You're
outside yelling shit fuck
motherfucker. In these
cases, dry mouth is reported.
This is habit forming.
Shit fuck motherfucker.
Shit fuck motherfucker.
In extreme cases, you will
develop seizures and no
one will notice. He hands
you a history of alcohol and
drug abuse. Do not take
before first talking with
a doctor or beautiful woman
or Jesus Christ Himself. You
will soon realize that nothing
exists. Store everything at
room temperature in a closet
safe. Ignore the banging
when he tries to get out.
There is a small chance I might be dying.
I wonder who will belong to you next,
one waterfall after another waterfall.
Cursive plays in the background. She has
no idea who Cursive is and sees you from
a great distance, but you have already
let yourself go, grown a beard, spent long
hours forgetting me as though I am a harbor
or the boxes still everywhere. I have never
told you, but the problem will always be in
your bones. Each one small as a partridge's
or hare's. Each one with my name printed
on. You told me once you were born that way,
a duck hanging by one leg, powerless to this
name. The women will come and go, the
signatures, the telephone numbers, the
plague of lady's clothes in the bathroom.
Wind blows its madness at the door, you
open it, and there I am as a potted plant,
accusing you. I say, your bones will always
look too tiny to take care of a woman. Your
skull cannot be their caps. I am sorry for
your life, your face is the face
of a warrior, your hamstrings pitch
you forward like revolvers. But there
are not more fish in the sea for you.
The masons got to you when you
were a child. Carpenters, builders,
roofers. They dug the other names
out of you like herb gardens and
threw them away. They left you with mine,
some record labels, a pothole and one generator
to keep it going. So if in fact I am dying, I want
you to know I am not a gun woman, I am not
here to be the shadow warning others of your
shadow. I am still here to bear witness to
our butterflies, our limbo, our pretending to be
travelers in our own bed. Your bones are my
bones, separated at birth. If I am dying, no
other woman will love you as I have, will
pet your head as if it is the thick fur of a sick
dog. If I am dying, I lay crumpled, an exit
ramp made of pillows. But ah, when
I was alive, with your bones
I was able to stand.
