i would look at a text
thumbnail skitter over message, scroll,
and think that this must be how real people talk
i looked for the answers to the universe in the
scuff of nail polish on my desk, or
scried my future in the blue tint of
lucky charms milk,
but there was no supernatural to be found in the ordinary,
no simple magic to the daily
and i woke up before the sun rose, but even then i
couldn’t find anything to be happy about
or any beauty in the darkened world,
until the gray light crept over the sky, illuminating the ugliness
the bus stop smells, and
fetid streets, and
the ants on the counter, crawling over their dead friends’ bodies,
among the pesticidal waste
and i wonder if someone wished me out of existence,
or if maybe, it stuck, when you told me i couldn’t be real