I kept forgetting reasons
to live. Then David took me
to the museum, and there
was a man playing jazz,
and I remembered. Music
was a reason. Not poetry.
I’m tired of poets.
I’m over being a subject.
Interiority is a drag.
I could be good
if only I wasn’t me.
I was good once.
Now I’m failing all
over the place. Take
my lungs. They stopped
working a few years ago, and I
keep doing things
that make them worse. Smoking
cigarettes at the bar
to impress a girl. Smoking
weed. Fucking someone
with Covid. Bravery
is so close to stupidity.
People keep mistaking me
for brave. I want my love to be
boundless, unoppressive.
But it’s hard. I’m jealous,
failing again, wanting
all your lovers to know
I’m the most beautiful
person in the world, smoking
my cigarettes and standing
in the corner. What I hate
about poets. What I hate
about myself. Grandiosity.
Oh God. Not grandiosity.