I am choking down several Flintstone Vitamins
with my black coffee:
my scruff is caught between childhood and adulthood.
Always a late bloomer, always with this arrested development,
always with this pain in the neck--
I pay my bills and reuse the stamps you send me.
Maybe I have something to offer,
like good taste in music, decent casserole recipes,
a hearty laugh,
I promise my brain hurts me more
than it will hurt you.
I promise you will let me down.
I can draw you a bath or draw you a picture,
do research by the side of the road.
I can pamper and cater and
get my shit together.
I promise that I will hold you with these fleshy arms
and listen to your secrets and not tell anyone.
Even after we break up, I will not tell anyone.
(And somewhere, while we're talking,
my flaws are folded neatly
in a bright yellow bag,
and that bag is caught in an endless ride,
a carousel ride,
wishing it was home again, with me.)