Tuesday, February 4, 2014

there is an envelope addressed to 
Mr. Ken Sunshine
on my desk, stamped
return to sender
because he probably moved to Westchester or Nebraska or the other places people
go to die.

i will finish this poem before calling my therapist and telling her that i want to move to
Westchester or Nebraska to be with Mr. Ken Sunshine, my one true love. 
i want to paint my body with
return to sender and crumble back into a 
zygote, curled and warm and small inside of my mother's
resentment
["i could have been a star"].

Ken is
brave and smart and owns his own consulting business[apparently]
i'll call him up and say
"Ken, how do i make my neighbors stop playing 90's rock and fucking against our shared wall? Ken, how do i fill out a FAFSA form? Ken, i wrote you secret messages in the binding of the Annual Report and you never even
opened it."

there are 27 inches of snow scheduled for Sunday and i want to
stamp return to sender,
go to work and check to see if i have any more letters from
Mr. Ken Sunshine.

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