i can’t get manic because of my mother.
any other
brother,
wouldn’t even bother.
ADAM!
so i write an exclamation
at the end of a declarative
sentence.
to feel ALIVE.
like, “alive”
I’m ALIVE BITCH!!
can’t kill me now!!!
AGH.
i said, quietly to myself
as i sat in front of a screen
devoted to a shopping queen
that only buys apple.
a situation you know my dad is after–
no, alyssa, don’t.
don’t buy mac.
buy gates.
“bye gates!”
I YELL FROM MY INTERNAL ORGANS.
“i buy mac.”
“i buy apple!”
i say,
{quietly}
cuz of my dad.
who only buys:
“computers you can alter from the privacy of your very own home.”
build computers lyss.
like that transistor radio
or the lightbulb you turned on with chris-
topher
GRACE.
the very dream you had to reinvent this
RACE.
“You’re the couch hopping villain of this
PLACE.”
said my DAD.
my stupid genius fucking TECH DAD.
like zuckerfuck, we were born for it
like elon, we were told we were shit.
DAD!
agh.
html.
gaia codes.
nicolas flamel.
witches toads.
kurt’s flannel.
empty roads.
like count the binary
to your next library
and find some time…
sweet canary,
to fly to amber heard.
like some abrasax girl.
from a super sexy world.
who can’t get manic.
or bury her plight in xanax.
cuz of her FUCKING MOTHER.
she’s the holistic health queen.
who found some munchausen byproxy.
to keep me unwell and unfed,
AND UNDERMEDICATED!
cuz “tylenol is bad”
cure your sickness
with prayer and sad.
depressed little baby
let me yell at you,
while you cry by a toilet.
cuz your best friend is
ceramics and cold empty places.
don’t feel sorry for yourself lyss.
you know that a million dollar faces
await you in bliss.
HEAVEN IS AWARDED
TO THOSE THAT DON’T KISS.
but before you go–
it’s teen suicide.
followed by incesticide.
followed by–
i can’t get manic because of my FUCKING mother.
cuz she’d be so happy
SO HAPPY!
she’d scream:
LET’S ALL GET ICE CREAM!
then drill my eyes out with my dad’s expensive drill.
she bought it for him with my money, it’s true.
and i can’t bury her fucking shrill
in enough vodka and vomit
to forget it still.
remember me, meg, and the comet?
i will.
make me a canary
a bird made from my dad’s binary.
so i can fly far–
far far away from here.
and bury my panic
from my mom’s angry, excessive manic.
PLEASE make a liquor called “MANIC!”
i’d pay 70 fucking bucks a bottle.
then I’d make love to alex
DRINK THAT FUCKING SHIT FULL THROTTLE.
