Trigger Warning
I never apologize, I never explain
until I’m left playing connect-the-dots
with the mold sprouting on each box
holding at final rest my children’s books and Christmas toys
as reparations for how I made you human.
It’s a sign of weakness, searching for something better
knowing better is the enemy of good,
but maybe there’s an old country antique
if I claw through the scratched Jim Croce CDs,
or a beta personality packed beneath the Land Before Time DVDs
that would sedate this grave robber’s adrenaline
and reclaim my P.O.V.
If only I had a Magic Treehouse to return to my empire-
commanding Nerf Wars and
constructing statues of Converse shoes
instead of an algorithm of YouTube essays
auto played to cope with post graduate depression that did not wait to be inquired
But came for me in recyclable cards and checks
for I’m too old to pretend that I don’t know
how much you were my conqueror.