stone cold.

the cold is bittersweet like the first time i fucked a guy who wasn’t my high school sweetheart; freeing…but wrong straight to my bones where the marrow congeals & prays for flame like the chicken stock in the escarole soup my mom cooked up that gave me food poisoning & left me carved out & hollow like aunt jan’s turkey before it’s been stuffed. maybe i’m always the same. a shredded corpse longing to be full to the brim. longing to overflow onto notebook paper & dog fur. overflowing like beer steins on the desk of my fifth doctor or is she my fourth or do the numbers not matter after 21? i don’t know anymore. & the meds used to hip-check me into the boards like a canadian toddler trying on their skates & slapshots for the first time & i wonder how lindros feels in the hall of fame framed forever as the legend i would love to become to someone. just one. my sister is the entity & i’m the shadow of what she never was: a kiss that was never blown but instead stays glued to some sweaty palm that’s probably shoved down a pair of gray sweats as we speak roaming around for the sensations i concoct at home in my meth lab that i never use for meth. it’s really just an easy bake oven but the lightbulb keeps burning out & my dad isn’t home to replace it & i wonder how mom managed to raise three kids, a husband, & all the nieces while she battled a brain slowly turning to stone.