“Emotional Regulation”
CW: Suicidal Ideation
My boyfriend thinks I have issues
with “emotional regulation.”
“Yelling…” he says, “I can’t
be with someone who yells.”
I try not to. Just how I try
every day not to cry.
I read somewhere
that tears are at the root
of rage. Call it
Despair. Poets know
the rhythm of its knocking.
Abundance
of dishes,
stillness,
burning braid on candle, sulking.
When I get cold in the bath,
I wish over bubbles
that I have on a sweater—
a real killer of a top, puffed up
sleeves, a graphic of Columbo
investigating a case, smoking a joint.
I don’t end up killing myself
because I can laugh.
May 4
It’s my birthday I have a hollow gut
and the desire to get my hands dirty
then wash them clean while Annette Hanshaw’s
unforgiving “That’s all!” at the end of
Daddy Won’t You Please Come Home echoes
in my head and I’ll walk to lunch
with a craving
for a cheeseburger (hold the cheese)
because I know
what I like but the barista at the café
won’t look me in the eye for more than a second
I’m unlike her with the pointless part about the (no-cheese)
that’s my intrinsic futility speaking—
still, I wouldn’t mind reclining on the tangerine
to the far left and considering
the employees’ inevitable sneers maybe
I’m the one pursuing a disconnect:
out of habit bringing to mind M.
after asking if he’d come in
he said no he would wait outside
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