A cell for a sitcom’s length,
in a cell, a miniature galaxy
pregnant with possibility,
alien with big black eyes waiting . . .
for the vacuum, of space is not
my home, I leave my feeble cells to
my mom in my will to
fight off disease for decades.

Flush at my own funeral, medical waste:
somatic septic sewer cells of
fetus mixing with fecal matter, or
dioxins in the air incinerating lungs
of pets and actual children–that wouldn’t be Green-
Pieces: umbilical, ambivalent, paraxial, personal.
A Gorey Inconvenient Truth and Choice: about warming in an oven
already too full for responsibility to try, try,
-mester the strength to ultra a sound. . .

No reason, no complaint
Other than a screaming “Why, why did you do it?!”

You don’t think that you deserve me and
That you would leap from tall buildings in a single bound.
I’m sorry if I never thrill you like someone else.
When you tire of the party, tell me.

If my opposite is ingrained, you’ll never change
Like the yearbook signatures: “Never change.”
But you can change, because I cry every night
Throwing objects against the wall from my bed
When I think of you in bed.
Then, I never want to see you again
Because I’m ashamed, but I would never tell you because
They believe you sometimes
One time,
Then you might break like porcelain.

For a millisecond
I wish I could have ran when I wouldn’t have felt guilt.
No matter what I say;
No matter if I can’t say anything
I still care.