Remember Not to Sniff Your Hands on the Playground, Though

I’m trying to figure out what my hand smells like.
There is a sort of sleeping
like you’re dead.
You fall asleep crumpled like a tissue
that’s been asked to hold
too much snot
and wake up with your eyes
crusted shut
which is pleasing in the same strange way
as asparagus pee.
My hand smells like semen
but I have not had contact with a cock
in months. I’m trying to figure out
what I’ve eaten for breakfast that might smell
like semen.
It’s amazing how you can scratch at the day.
Can chip away the minutes
like biting a piece of almond roca
and then stopping after you bite
to look at it.
It’s amazing how a day keeps passing,
you keep fake smiling, keep replying
to questions, folding laundry,
talking to mothers on the playground
about play dates and unsatisfactory performances
of first grade teachers while inside
your chest
your heart is being squished
the same way you’ve heard breasts get squished
when a woman has a mammogram,
equally humiliating.
It’s funny the disrespect of the world
turning, the sun shining, the birds
singing, the trees budding
with new spring flowers
when your heart
is so
fucking
broken.
Maybe it was the toaster waffle
or the eggs?


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