Something’s wrong. My keys don’t work anymore.    The four walls of my heart is not a cheap motel, a budget hourly affair. You cannot stay the night and leave behind a messed up bed and me There’s no housekeeping to clean up the messed up sheets and me There’s no wake-up call to snap me

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Somebody Else’s Superman.

I am in love with somebody else’s Superman.   When she bleeds crimson, you brush it off say that it’s fine. It blends in with the cape. I can take it to the laundromat after this. When she’s cold you set yourself alight to keep her warm, make excuses for her, shield her from life’s

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I went to see a psychiatrist today. A shrink, a doctor of the mind, a second opinion.   I wanted to plead insanity. I wanted someone to tell me that it’s not biologically possible for me to be truly happy, that I can’t help all of this sadness. Tell me that I am the byproduct

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