#sundaeaddams

in a whimsy world of my own, you swallowed woodwind instruments doused in clindamycin,

and spoke only in pendulum swings,

i took photos of you as you dragged your feet through heart palpitations and misdiagnosed commercial jingles,

do not take if allergic to bicycle tires, terrible sex, the smell of pussy after a tornado haphazardly rips through your mobile home and spits unkempt pinball machines on your lawn…

have you had breakfast today?

have you contacted your doctor?

i. pretending to walk through the foggy woods again, in a reoccurring garden hose night terror, without the elderly neighbor’s complaints,

or need to call the cops if i stop (just a little too long) to name a white-throated sparrow “it costs too much to go bowling on friday nights”

or maybe need to tie my shoes…

ii. and sometimes i catch myself wondering where you’ve been, siphoning gasoline…

masturbating to a motel television, collecting golf balls from cracked car windows,

again and again, again and again, again and again / you’re scouring through the medicine cabinet,

in marlboro light lipstick, in half-off synthetic hair extensions, in cardboard signs ‘i was crying in my truck this morning’

while i stayed up practicing making out with sun spectacles / with the telephone plugged in / with the bedroom door closed, a note attached to the knob

‘soon you’ll be ecstatic i forgot to put gas in your car, left a half cigarette in my pocket, and only broke half of your fingers,

soon you’ll feel a bit more gratitude,

kiss more privately, make love on barren highways…

think about killing yourself, less and less

i. suggested you wear something other than a lobotomy to your grandmothers funeral / as if we’d find time to fuck each other in pews ‘til we create coruscant nosebleeds with our blistered tug-of-war fingertips

ii. under your welcome mat is a place where people pray for fermented ibs symptoms, nocturnal yeast infections, and symbolic herniated discs,

turns out carving a cyst out of your pubic line with a blunt spork is not a good idea for your mental health

in layman’s terms, found your name in the middle of yesterday’s obituary, and masturbated for approximately three hours to the word ‘was’

filmed some exclusive footage,

reminiscent of my mouth on your mouth, spitting up canary yellow insects and pawn shop accordions…

i. like a connecticut housefly (nervous about paying rent fifteen days late) i was terrified i would end up vomiting tousled mascara on your disgruntled abdomen and leave you missing someone else’s bedroom aura,

i’ll meet you there in five minutes…

ii. during a ninety second television advertisement, i realized i fell in love with you because of the way you polish honeycrisp apples with traumatic childhood memories, and argumentative ‘thank you, please come again’ shopping bags…

i wish you were here sucking on my pierced nipples, no, no, no, no, no… had that night terror again through faulty binoculars, where we kiss using only splintered kitchen plates, damp linoleum tiles and crumbling front cavities,

but how many times have you asked ‘are you okay’ today? five, six, seven, eight,

i.

‘when i hold you i wonder who you really are’ this was my inattentive ex. girlfriend’s favorite phrase

something, something, something, you’ve been exhibiting signs of depression (lack of an appetite, trouble concentrating, changes in sleep)

including playing the harmonica in a back handspring