Scabs

I am an empty, flabby

bag of skin going bad

that was going to

write my last poem

today

but I cut my thumb

while capping the pen

and I saw that there

was still a little bit

of me left to read

and a little bit more

that could press

itself

onto you

until we congeal

like a scab

that never quite heals,

not because we pick at it

but because we don’t.

*

It is our first date

and I’ve thrown up

onto a different girl

before I met her

at her house

where she tells me

that I smell good,

like a woman’s perfume,

and I tell her that

it must be what I ate.

Want to see?

*

I am starting to notice

things that I never

noticed before

like that I never

before noticed I didn’t

notice before,

or that I’m saying

the same sayings

to stay the same,

or I feel nothing

and that must be

a feeling too,

or why else am I

still here?