Someone said to me, god, don’t write dream poems.
Make it real! 
And someone completely new said, I hate people 
who use Garamond for their poems.
I was a child in one room while
in another, another child, put an end to it.
How else do I say this when I still walk about like two
popsicle sticks made to walk across the counter.
When the dream was suburbia, we wouldn’t know
what the end sounds like, a clap of God.
It feels like poetry has never done anything for me.
A girl is dead. 
And I am stupid.
And I can’t read a room like I couldn’t when I went back
to the girl’s house afterward, to tell her brother he really had it
good getting excused from school. But that’s death.
The time after in which we bump into the world
over and over trying to get through the door. 
Because death makes a hole and survivors must fill it with trash.
When it didn’t fill, I got to barreling down so desperate to get away
from my leftover self. I did it wrong.