I have a daydream where the world has ended
and I work in a bar.
you’d think I’d pick something else
but no, I wear a black uniform with too much cleavage,
the bar is lit up
by pink and yellow neon lights.
In my daydream the handsome monster asks me
‘what did you do, before the world ended?’ and I say nothing.
There is a herd of ghosts in my computer that tells me I’m not alone,
it’s a collection of poetry and friendly voices,
‘if you were here’ dirty messages at 1 am.
My three day old baked potato stares at me in judgement,
and I know, I know the difference between hands
across from me on a table, and my hands dancing
a lonely tango on a keyboard.
I have re arranged this bedroom three times lately and not once
did it fill a space
in me the size of a city. Or a person.
My friends and I wear each others traumas
like friendship bracelets,
woven through with trigger warnings and determined voices.
We sing odes to the selfies and soft parts
of our bellies exposed and jaws bent back to
show our throats. I do not tell them about the
daydream where they don’t exist and I alone
clean up my mess. It’s quieter this way,
I bare my throat to the monster of my imagination,
he is not soft with me. I do not ask him to be.
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