pity gone

there is a stigma
about pulling off a Band-Aid

we cringe
as though the adhesive
may rip off the flesh

but the truth is
disappointment
of a healed wound
and pity gone

we are making a mess

this morning
we were drinking coffee
i was maybe a little high
and you
well your breasts were showing
and i asked you
what we are doing here again

you replied,
"making a mess"

we both know
my emotions are a tornado

which is okay
when i am alone
a tornado is only as destructive
as the debris in it's path

you are naked in my bed
you are the debris

Proof

This morning,
while driving to the airport,
I imagined, for just a second,
the semi
crashing into me.

I thought of my mother
while a white dove flew above the interstate.
This is the truth and I wonder why.

I have so many things to say and I do not know how to say them anymore.

I watched a building burning,
and I, too, burned.
I watched two cars collide,
and I felt myself colliding
with this city that is not mine.

What can I say, but the truth,
that I am medium?

What can I say, but the truth,
the drunk man from New Iberia who wouldn't put his shirt back on died right there on Bourbon Street.

I'm searching the dictionary,
trying to define "Okay"
but we all have our ideas.

Here is the proof,
I thought I was

and you didn't.

sticky note

a sticky note
on the bathroom floor
i could not love you
anymore

I slept next to you and dreamt of a sinking ship.