#worthus

I have to think that I'm the problem when I've tried everything and people still leave.

the fridge: Everybody likes to eat half past midnight on the floor, cold to the thighs, spilled milk and leave it for the cat to lick up, everybody likes to talk about their pain and the inside of their mouths and how it’s so funny, and it’s so strange when I eat sugar my molars hurt so bad it is like agony it is like a piercing saber. I know it tastes better in the dark, when nobody else is awake. You don’t make out with me anyway, though. the Tupperware closet: I show up to the dentist in bedroom slippers smelling like mildew, and carrying a deer slung over my shoulders like a cloak, like a warning, like a detour sign with blood spattered across and you should turn back but you just stand on whirlpool ankles wondering where the fuck the body is. the freezer: I show up at the dentist with vegetable oil in my hair, and I forget I’m in pain, and then you leave and I am lying with leather sucking at my sweaty back like briny squid arms, sun at its high most peak above the adjustable chair, and the ocean with its fists in my mouth asks me if I’m comfortable? is this hurting? is this hurting you when I do this? the silverware drawer: It hurts when I eat sugar, it hurts when I drink lemonade. it hurts when it’s warm, it hurts when it’s cold, it hurts when he leaves, it hurts when he’s close, so is it all just balance beam and hands covered in chalk, and narrowly avoiding the rusty nail between my toes. there’s a nerve running parallel to the bottom of my jaw, gulf stream full of novacaine, Atlantic full of limp salmon. shoot up, and come down, and crinkle up like a straw wrapper in the alley behind the Kohls under the womping, throbbing in your gums. raw and dry, like a phantom limb in heat lightning. the pan cupboard: sit straight up. I can’t feel it but something’s dripping, and I know now it takes years for aliens to come to foreign planets when they can’t feel the life beneath them. my hands are alien like drunk men to their stillborn children when my cheeks feel like freezer burnt chicken I touch my neck. and somethings dripping and it’s red and I don’t ask because I don’t want to know. the cabinet where the aspirin and the coffee grinder are: I wince and curl my lip, and he says sorry did that hurt, but there is a 5 inch needle in my mouth so I don’t respond. says you’re hurting cause you brush too hard. says you’re bleeding cause you don’t floss and I am so ashamed I put my shiny lite brite smile to waste all week. the cabinet with the olive oil and the rat shit and the green tea that tastes like it’s expired: it hurts when I chew, it hurts when I swallow the vinegar you brought into your room plastered with horror paraphernalia, and nugs of weed like spider nests in every corner, you beckon them with your fingers that look like their children. you say we should down it so when we think of each other we’ll just be sick, but I don’t think it works like that. Los Angeles is just like this, fireworks year round and the dog shaking in the doorway cause it sounds like the world is ending. pure hell year round, and by the time you find some air conditioning it’s already melting in your hands, and too late to realize you’re probably standing in the devil’s linen closet. who else would get it this good down here. the cabinet that’s always empty and never clean: don’t worry, I love you. don’t worry, I only lie to my father now. and don’t worry, none of this is a metaphor for you, but I’d probably still be having panic attacks over the shape of my bug bites matching the mushroom circles in your backyard even if it was.