I never appreciate the sun when it’s here.
I am so focused on getting what I want,
things slip out my pockets
without my noticing.

anyways
that’s an old mailing address now
like the gash becomes a scar.
something happened here.
a plate dropped on the floor
and everyone clapping
for the trail of glass.
what happened here?
tell the story
without saying anything.

I am jealous of how
men get to be contradictions.
not me, no prodigal son here.
I don’t know what I am
but paper cuts and cuticle skin
peeled back by nervous fingers.
there’s something out there
that I’m supposed to be
but I feel I’m drifter further and further.

mom,
where’s the medicine?
mom,
why does dad do that?
mom,
how many questions can I ask you in a day?
mom,
how do you get to sleep?
mom,
do you remember how I used to be?
or...