I would put all of the words into scrambled eggs
if you had any, peering through the bathroom
window to see you in the yard at 6am, not
sure if you had risen early, or never gone to bed.
What has brought me to this moment, recalling
now a pink rug below a green ceiling and circling
amongst the threads to a heartbreaking song screaming
from the small white boom box my mom bought at Walmart.
I am not getting any younger. I convince myself over and
over that you are someone that I could love. You and also
you. And you as well. Any of you. But really, not one, not
even one of you, is capable of loving me.
I am scarred in the bathroom mirror, my cheeks are
sinking in, I am addicted to scales. I am addicted to measure.
I am addicted to saying just the right thing to make you respond.
There are so many friends who will tell me that I am perfect,
my sense of humor is what gets them through the day. There
are so many friends who will tell me this, but not one you.
