the muse is walking me home

dear writing: its a new millennium
+ all i got was this fcking iphone.

i walk home in the rain w/ my helmet on
cuz i left my umbrella @ home— sue me

4 feeling lucky. i turn out of the station
in step w/ the wet rats that flower this city.

ig i believed everything would work out
cuz it always has, the way i once

lay down on the roof of a car +
let my friend floor it. urg —

feel the lurch of lunch in my stomach.
i feel starved n fat @ the same time.

i turn the corner on kennedy. does
something happen 2 a bich wen

they get a credit score? i mean writing
darling, the world was once my egg

2 crush: so fun, so fragile, so puking
a block frm home, chunky insides

spread out like snow angels on
the winter steps—gimme a min.

[the sound of
barfing.]

back. im
almost home + the trees r so slick

that they’re melting in the dark. o god—
another gr8 idea. another line tht can go

into the goddamn fcking iphone +
drown there while i dream of other things,

(what ill wear 2morrow, where the fckin cat is),
cuz writing, these days i cling more

2 the thought of u than the practice,
to the way i worshipped the person
u made me.