Look What I Made

I wonder what the painter’s equivalent is
to an architect entering their own building

Is it better than 
the lovely cutting of carbonation or
the quenching of a thirst or
when your dog first sits at your command

perhaps its more like
hearing a lyrebird sing your song or
a child reading your words aloud because
I sometimes suck on salt just to relieve my tongue with soda or
let my hair dance on my back just to scratch an itch

and it doesn’t seem all  that different
than putting something together just to say

here, look what I made

Pocket

Sitting in pockets
Sopped in anonymity so I can say things like:
I think I look best when I am hung over
and,
I wish I was a bit thinner
and,
He is annoying me a bit today
(He is not).

Turns out I don’t say those things
because
I don’t say anything
because
Even my secrets are afraid
Of sounding narcissistic
and
Ungrateful
and
So
Entitled
and
White.

We always end up here
And I’m trapped under water
Breathing in your convictions and
Questioning mine

We always end up here
And I’m such a good swimmer
But I can’t seem to find my
My breath
Anymore

The worst part about doing something
You love is
How much it hurts you when you fall
And Swallowing your pride down deep with
The only beer you can seem to afford
And the onions you battered with flour
And ate down even though
It was hard 

I’ve never cut myself too deep but
My nails indent my arms often
Not unlike myself at five and
The numbers that filled my 
Anxious little mind 

From the same tap spout the digging
And the counting
Comments
Passers-by
Voices of a higher decibel

And Hell— While we are at it
Compliments and Smiles and
Those who seem to enjoy
Me or
At least what I do

Sometimes

Then
When i am not feeling such suck
Such a paradox leaves me to wonder
What the hell is the fucking point
Then

Full-circle

Lifted
Or the story in the water
Spoken
Slow
Like the way he
drags his cigarette and
How the cat tiptoes around
the table’s tops

Sounds escaping
Or the mourning’s drop
And the way she drowns
in blankets
Once the light
leaks in
Or the way
His breath seems to seep out
How the smoke did
Just a few hours earlier

collision

It’d been five years since I’d seen you. 
I said goodbye to you with our cat.
She sees another as her own now,
and your face faded when you told me
it was all wasted
You said that I wasted
your time.

Always bewildered when
I hear one’d rather forget,
I find my bests are ones that I’ve loved.
And looking in their eyes still
let’s me breathe in the way
that it always used to.  

But you,
I knew That when I left you and
you were kind to me for awhile.
I knew then what Was but hoped I’d differ,
We all do,
but,
I had stolen your
twenties.
 
I wondered aloud to my current,
(and let’s face it: my forever)
when it’d be that i’d see you again
because 

I’d heard he joined us in the smoke.

And then in a place so familiar,
So un-fleeting and so my own,
Ten steps away from the place
that I seemingly create my own reality,
(Such a far cry from
The heart-and-gun drawn
paintings,
And that time for your birthday,
when I drew our sprawling legs,

Back when 
I was so desperately thriving
to be 
Who I Am Now) 

I saw you.

And you saw me.  
And I swear
For even just a moment

We stopped.

 
At some point there was decision
And I’m not exactly sure who made it;
It could have been me,
But if I hadn’t
It would have been you. 

I sometimes wish
I still knew the person
Who knew the person
I was,
Or at least thank you
for helping me
get here. 

(And maybe I need 
to get over it
but 
It still hurts to know
I’m not liked). 

Pinching Wires

Haunting a moment and 
Breathing in your mind
I miss the way I felt when I knew you’d be
around
and when I didn’t have to wonder
why your pecks turned French
and your tongue stayed in
my mouth for days

You could know every aspect of my being
and I wasn’t afraid to have dirty socks around you either
My house is still in disarray only
there’s a dog that lives here too
naming dustpans and pine-cones
as favourites and
the space between us
Time For Bed. 

On The Floor

Laying
And beating
Purring
And peeing (on the dog bed) 
He gets a kick out of
Pissing into Oncoming traffic 
So maybe she’ll always 
Get a kick out of 
Pissing on the Floor

Canadian Thanksgiving