my heart inside a hot pocket

the serving size: two fists & 
only the desires you are aware of.
a futon is a futon no matter whose 
beautiful house it is. your boyfriend 
is a potter & he wanted to pinch you
into the shape of a vessel. a list 
of baby names. i'm told 
i should own plants. a palm's worth
of potting soil. the refridgerator
holds all my hope in a green wavering 
pickle jar. today i will go to the grocery store
& feel briefly whole as i buy
3 peppers for five dollars which 
isn't very cheap afterall. the peppers
were grown in a hot house.
maybe all growth is artificial.
i am the size of a lima bean. 
i'll risk it all for 
another summer. i want to soak
in a sink. wash me with the rest
of a blueberries. give your sugar handfuls.
the grass is emo & cutting itself.
my suicidal ideation has moved so far
from intent that it might be called 
dreaming. the microwave fills 
with dew. my paperplates
multiply like rabbits. children 
children children. all i want to go is 
sleep. my brother turned 22 today
& i bet he's not thinking
about hot sauce or garlic. 
the only condiment i have here
is mustard. yellow & sharp.
i've never used it. the packaging 
was ruptured in travel. if we are patient
someone will love us exactly how we want
to be loved but only for one night.
mine was a long time ago. i'm passing
the time. is it 5:30 yet? 
can i take off my shoes? am i alone
with my aches & my shoulders?
a box of hot pockets sleeps 
in the back of the fridge. 
i live my life 2 minutes & 30 seconds
at a time. wait for the bell.
open the door. i'm not trying 
to prove myself anymore. tomorrow
will be a new day. 

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