V. H. King's Ink

"what's wrong?" my mom
asked, but i wouldn't look 
at her. "you seem kind 
of bummed." i reached for 
my crayons and scratched 
them across the canvas board. 
"would you even tell me 
if something was wrong?" 
it's a little more than 
something, but it's nothing 
i can't handle. 

my lovers let me know 
it's almost time for evening 
prayer. i message back to say 
I'm in a mood. don't think i'll be there. 
it's hard to be anywhere 
when you don't have a body; you just 
end up everywhere, like whatever 
it is I'm feeling. 

sad and angry, i told one 
of my loves, but not in a pixar 
way. I've always pictured myself 
going for a walk on nights like these, 
smoking a cigarette more often 
than not. an itch scratches 
from the inside 
out, begging 
to crawl free and burn something. 
the kind of urge that slips 
keys and a credit card into a hand 
and a pocket, 
locks the door,
drives into the night. 

thirty minutes or three hours 
later, I check my messages. 
another me is checking a room
at a roadside motel, ears ringing. 
shower steam and white-sheet 
pillows won't stop it. neither 
of us know 
what we are 
escaping, since both of us are 
already dead. 

rain falls 
on my windowless forehead,
dripping into my eyes and 
I wonder what it's like to stay 
put in the life you're given. 
I'm not saying I've been 
greedy; I just forgot myself 
too many times, but I can remember 
slices of a cake left out 
and thinking MacArthur was as good 
as any other name 
for a park 
in a country 
committed to war on every front.

it occurs to me: if it gets 
too bad, my mom can take me off
these meds. i hope i don't
dissolve before i can 
ask her to melt me into a hug.