clam chowder days

We're typewriter people. Under the keys, under the bleachers, we're under your bed. We're not damaged but we sure are... precarious. Limbs hanging on by strings, words that almost almost almost give ourselves away. Laugh it off.

Your slogan could be: "Maybe later".

The thing I've noticed about people is that they know a lot about circles but not much at all about straight lines. Try to get from point A to point B: I bet you can't. There is a lot that we can't fix---the sun is exploding, the paint is drying---but there are some things that we can: the high notes, preventative pre-cancer treatments, your attendance record.

I'm supposed to be doing my math homework right now. Do you get that? I don't cut my wrists, I don't starve myself, but I'm self-destructing just the same. This is my way of cutting out pieces of myself. These words. I'm sabotaging myself for, what? for you? I didn't plan for this is be about you, but look at me: I'm mutilating myself at your leisure.

Let's talk about that, huh? You do that, too: sabotage yourself. But don't worry, don't worry, I may be reckless but I'm a good cure. If you're the rubber, then I'm the glue; but maybe I'm the rubber.

You and I, dear, the ones who both got away. You and I, sweetheart, the burnt underside of the pie. You and I, darling, the sun and moon, no, the day and the night, no, the ceiling and the floor, no, the milk and the eggs. You and I, love, the time bomb, the mine field. And I wasn't there when the bombs went off, but I know how you feel (I'll bet it was just like a kiss on the mouth, only less destructive. Yeah, hand grenades never hurt a fly).

And I don't know if I'd rather be the rubber or the glue, but what I do know is that I'm trying so hard to be whichever one I'm not.

This has been The Devastation Diaries.