how many years can I go before it gets too hard to
swallow sticky sunlight
and hope it
glues my ribs back together?
how long will it take for this
hugs-will-make-it-better, this
learn-to-breathe-and-it-will-pass, this
be-yourself-and-forge-your-own-path
bullshit to shatter
under the throbbing pressure of
no-the-fuck-it-wont-it-will-only-get-stronger?
how many melted sunrises does it take for me to
give in and stop pretending
that I can fix it with
music or
sex or
just the right flavour of tea--
and when I do,
is that right?
maybe lying to the morning frost
is the only way to put off its power,
or maybe it all does help, just
not forever,
but maybe every fuck session,
every radio-up-long-drive just
masks the tension
until we drown in pretending.
e.m.










