I don’t notice the mountains anymore
though they’re right in front of me-
driving to work straight facing a miracle of nature.
I hear sounds but I don’t care
where they’re coming from,
I have time off but I don’t feel
There are Christmas flowers, scarlet and white,
all dead in the window, still
and I wonder when it happened
that I stopped having time
49% of me is eaten up-
it’s crawling with frost,
it’s bristling with ice,
it’s bracing itself to let loose the destruction
because the fortress I had
was doing its job just fine
’til it started to melt.
I didn’t care if anyone held my hand
because all it was made for
was wielding a pen
that’s a ruined lie
and I want my purpose back.
I’d killed that girl who made brownies,
who measured Tylenol,
who cared about lipstick or heels,
who had any time to want,
who blew kisses through car windows.
49% of me is eaten up
that she somehow managed to survive under ice
and that some punk kid had the nerve
to warm her to life.
And 49% of me
is crawling with frost,
is bristling with ice
and ready to unleash the devastation
that 51% of me
traded for hope.