Ovulation

It's more a syndrome. Stale apple pie wearing fresh cheddar underwear. Forks are highways. Driving a path through thick concrete beds. Spoons are continents. Roiling atop an inferno of chaoses. Hands are dinosaurs. Extinct to our hearts. Tongues are Darwin. Evolving our touch.

Until we are a franchise of ourselves.

I'd say he was lonely if I wasn't so busy wondering what that means. I'd roll in the stripes of the tiger if its roar still meant anything. I'd wear the ruffle on my ass. Dogeballs in mid-flight. I'd get fat. Pregnant with too many moments to name. I'd answer. And be sober. A crash cart of a friend. A parachute of a lover. In the plane wreck of their lives.

I'd give birth. Day in and day out. To everything I'm supposed to want. The clothes. The makeup. And the children. I'd do it all just to prove them wrong. That happiness is just a door that opens on a room that isn't there.

The cumulative abortion of just being alive gives birth to so much much. When you're willing to to be emptied out.