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Realizing I Have Not Moved From My Bed for Two Days


by P.R. Mercado


Quite frankly you are ruining my life. 
I know you don't mean to, but you are. 
Like a car accident your face appears
out of nowhere when I close my eyes
and you collide into me, your body
heavy on mine and your breath warm
on my face. I spend hours sitting alone
just because I cannot function like this. 

My hormones are going crazy. I cry
in the kitchen for hours. I try to think
of different reasons of why I may be
going hysterical: Baby seals are dying
in Canada. There is a rebellion in Syria. 
A lot of stuff is going down in Africa. 

While taking a dump today I stayed
on the toilet until my family went 
searching for me, thinking I ran away. 
I wish I could. You and I to some place
without cable TV or highways. 
Maybe somewhere with a view. 

You won't be interested, though. 
I am such an ugly boy. I drown
in my own loneliness, choke
on my own disgusting habits. 
You'd do no better. I've been practicing
for the rest of my life, and 
I am still no good. 

I just like thinking about you. 
At least I have that. And poetry. 
I write about you, and my words
immortalize your beauty, forever
incorruptible so long as ink
is in supply and people can read. 

Sometimes I eat my feelings, 
sometimes I write them down. 
That is why I am fat, 
and that is why I am a writer. 

You are my muse. 
When I miss you, I eat. 
When I miss you, I write. 
Both I probably do too much. 
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