April Fox

Someday I will nail the art

of being perfect

Bleach my eyes the bluest white

so I can see what you do, half-full, rose-colored

glasses balanced

with careful precision

over the cracks

so nothing falls in

When people ask, “how are you?”

I will remember to say, “Fine! How ’bout yourself!”

-fluorescent light bulimia

burning through my tongue-

instead of, “I don’t know;

there is a dead rat in my driveway

and I can’t stop thinking

of his death.”

I will remember to turn the corners of my mouth up

to keep in the things I should remember

not to forget

and not to give away the fact

I’m gagging on the shit

that’s being fed until I’m forced

to regurgitate the bright fake sunshine

pouring down my throat

And I’ll take my pretty, perfect self

perfect smile, perfect cadence, all the words that I’ve saved up

and I’ll crawl into a field

with real sun, and soft sweet grass

and fall asleep, the breath of flowers in my lungs

taste of metal

in my mouth.