Strep, friends, is boring.
Tylenol is boring, lozenges are boring,
and fake, like your passionate dog
playing dead, and it’s brave for anyone
to be vulnerable, not just Bon Iver,
who is boring. If I die, I’m sorry
for calling and then hanging up
on 911 that was for my
passed-out-on-fake-weed-with-his-eyes-open-boyfriend.
When he woke he said, “Good job, quick thinking”
but I couldn’t take him seriously because
he had pissed himself and puked on his dick
and I had slapped his face, which was cold
and thick, and he didn’t answer me
like a silicone doll, and who can love
a silicone doll, even if it comes alive
and says you have nice hair?
Years later, he asked “Do you still use this email?”
and I replied “No.”
My lover’s mother died and I thought “Good for you,
I had to block mine.” But probably I won’t
die. Surely, I won’t, even though when I look up
the sky is made of angels who are like,
“What’s up? What’s up?” and they’ve asked me
a thousand times and zero times
I have laughed.
