counting the chickens

sweet naivité,

spawned from a youth you still believe

echoes within &

that would be your best excuse,

if in fact you could make yourself believe

it.

 

so yes, you’ve been here before,

that hollowed out apartment,

that night alone in the early evening,

those butterflies in the stomach

that come with the wanting to return to

the place of sheer wonder

which comes from the presence of an individual

whom you can’t get off your mind---

no, you can’t leave this one alone.

 

itch & scratch that same old scab,

just as you have a million times before,

counting those chickens before they have proverbially

hatched,

like it’s all gonna turn out

perfect,

this time.

 

know the name of the drug,

it’s spelled

L-O-V-E

& though so many swear by it,

using it to bring them up to a romantic reality

(altering their usual state),

know that it comes in many forms---

sometimes crystallized into lust,

sometimes smashed down into a powder of

obsession & paranoia

(mixed with jealous& a lack of trust in all things

that stems from times in the past being beaten

until you have bled out a thousand holes left by

the stabbing knives)---

and

yet,

here you are again,

putting your neck right down on the chopping block,

hoping this one doesn’t have an axe &

waiting foolishly,

like a catholic school girl

feeling mischievous because she’s masturbating

with hand right down beneath that stupid skirt they

make her wear,

getting off while that benediction is crooning.

 

a sinister curiosity,

a wanton body &

that pestering believe that this will be the time

that it all will work out right,

make you cook it with the spoon &

inject it

deep

deep

deep down

within.