She told me love should be fair;
in result I stare at a list of names,
the choices I can make. But don’t want too.
Kept like a trophy or a blanket.
But this blood goes up and down me
as if I were an escalator.
Some get on, get off,
but those two stuck like gum
in between my steps.
Rotating in the exposed
and in the underground.
But there are elephants and chairs and mice going up.
And suddenly the spearmint boy
stuck to my rotation
is not sweet enough to distract.
She’s passed out and ravaged and she has taped herself to me.
My railings are wet with what spilled on the kitchen table.
And somehow steal, rubber, and plastic are now cancerous.
I can’t get off, I am this cycle.
The speed always depends on the weight,
and lately I am carrying an array
of bedroom furniture; bears, snakes, squirrels, rats, secrets.
Some walking down the stairs just so I must haul them back up.
Passing by the even floor, I glance; the names, their bodies, sit gathering dust.
When I see impossible possibilities
they are just as tangible as the possible ones. And it’s unfair.
I have been mistaken for brave, when I’m only a passionate fool.
Bravery is decision. And I never chose.
I keep carrying and moving and spinning up and down like a sensitive machine.
They are covered in dust still.
And I’m not even brave enough to clean.