blogposting again

Will someone put me in a painting
before my wings turn brown?

Will children try and catch me as I flutter from my bush before my prime of morning has deserted me
will poison be sprayed on my home
and called landscaping?
Demand: don’t let me down
what a comforting demand
to be trusted so
and don’t we all intend not to
before the fall?
I’ll let you in on a secret. Sometimes I do.
The next monet
in water or oil immortalized
me?
the doctor’s active ingredient
which makes me so inactive
but just enough to suppress that
sometimes I wish it would have more effect on me.

As I sit writing this in a gas station toilet, the motion activated light turned off.

I spray poison on peoples bushes for a living. Everyone’s parents know someone but mine. Isolation is worse than cancer and oh boy mine is terminal. Love is a foreign concept.

Nabakov was an entomologist. A man whose favorite studies were of butterflies and child rape. My patchy facial hair has started turning white. Twenty two going on twenty three. It feels too soon for an eccentric russian to stare me down beneath horn rimmed glasses. Too soon to be finalized beneath plexiglass on a museum wall. But I can’t feel things getting better. Can’t feel things at all.

I was an hour late for work today. Its been six months since she’s been gone. The sun still rose. I can’t listen to my favorite songs anymore because now she knows them too. My world lacks music. The birds still sing.

Today I quit taking the mood stabilizers.