“I hardly remember the details, just that we kept on merging into one another, I was you, you were me.”

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

Sorry about not saying anything.

I would’ve slurred

and sworn.

You would’ve said:

Can I love someone

with a self-destructive sketchy side?

You shouldn’t.

I’ve had so many brushes with death

they’ve turned to bodychecks.

I was super sick.

You know I can’t sit still.

Something churns in me.

My synapses spark,

like metal in a microwave.

Moorrrrrrrrrree

I got my phone stolen.

Black curls like alpaca wool

on the sticky dust sidewalk

of Ontario Street public housing.

Sleeping Beauty took too many bars.

You must have been really worried.

You forget my immortality:

my brother,

basement naloxone,

stranger angel CPR.

My chest was sore for months.

But I am alright…

I’m sorry.