(Beauty In My Breakdowns)

i have-
oh god
-what do i have?
do i even have?
my not-grandmother's pearls
a stitch in the fold that collapses into the explanatory full
the movement of a hand
some residual recollection that previously passed into r.e.m.
this nervous perception of your quantitative graph of the quaternary color wheel
that I can't even trust to be accurate
which hasn't stopped me before but i've still got
traces of your thin lips
beauty in my breakdowns
paintings of my old wrists whom i desperately miss
35mm slides of all that i've stolen and all that's been stolen from me
memoric photographs of diary entries i burned after they caught fire in your hands
such to become ash sunday ashes held by spit from your fingertip
crossing onto my forehead to cross out the christ from my mind in honest x-mas celebration
so i won't mind sleeping on linoleum since plastic's all we've got left
or being told i'm perfect as I drunkenly tap dance to make you forget how you aren't supposed to smile
because you just left your mother's funeral after your best friend literally robbed her grave for your mental stability
as if sanity is actually desirable
like your home could ever be replaced by another person or
by the likes of me