If You ever knew Anything about me At all I hope it is that I am a selfish dog I will fight for my feed Growl and scream And gnaw at the bars of my cage Until I am saitiated I am a pack dog Crawling back to My bed of heather To let another Lick my wounds I am an old dog Grey around the chin I don’t run like I used to My eyes are going Sometimes I might bark at a Stranger Thinking he is You But I am a good dog Really! I always do as I’m told All I ask is that You rub behind my ears And tell me I’m Your Good girl To be honest This metaphor is a weak one I never pet strangers’ dogs As a child Never even asked Because A frightened dog will bite I should have bit harder that night Ripped Your thumb Clean off And left You With a constant reminder Of the type of dog You are

The day my grandparents’ dog died I walked alone to school I could have stayed and watched Should have I blamed the needle Because I love to lie and I’m sick to admit that My teacher called me brave My brother called me selfish I have always kept my eyes closed in elevators I have always chewed the skin around my nails I have always laughed before the joke lands The first time you slept with him I sat in your living room and stared at the television Volume on 97 And I knew that your mother was right about me Because how could this not be damnation? How could this not be hell? Is this brave or is this selfish? Is it both? Do you miss me anymore? Do you still feel my spit in your mouth when you taste menthol? Does the smell of cider make the bile rise in your throat? Does it fill your stomach with stones? Every night I dream of killing you And I lick your blood off my hands like an animal And it’s funny Because when I wake up My mouth still tastes of iron And when I look in the mirror I see my grandparents’ dog

I could spin another Awful metaphor About how you were a Dog And I was a Rabbit Or something I might just quit writing forever Or kill myself Or join a convent I just can’t spend Another second Staring at a blank page Wishing you were Dead I could write your name Across the city In BIG RED LETTERS And then They’d all know what you’d done But I can’t even write your name On my phone Without wanting to Rip off my hands I HATE YOU !!!!!! Still By the way But it’s fine I’ll just Settle For another Bad poem Bad metaphor Another picture of you With my friends Because they don’t really care Because they don’t really know Another blank page because It’s the worst kind of pain It’s the kind of pain I can’t even Write about I am a selfish person really Or maybe not Maybe I’m just fucking CRAZY Or maybe I’m just an artist It doesn’t really matter Does it?

My friend compares herself to citrus Which is funny because I cannot stand the smell of it That feels like it should be a metaphor for something But it isn’t When I checked her Spotify After two years of no contact I saw we were listening to the same song Which really feels like it should be a metaphor for something But it isn’t When I speak to the boy from class And I catch myself laughing too hard Too honestly I will bite my tongue Sit on my hands until they’re numb To ensure he cannot reach for them In the way I let you reach for them And when he quotes you word for word And tells me, “I think you like being sad I think you think it makes you a better artist” I will laugh (but not too hard) Because he’s joking And I will tell myself That it might feel like a metaphor for something But it isn’t