one month until i'm not eighteen forever

there's something about
every poem i've written
and i think i've figured it out:

you strangle every word
of every line
of every stanza
with your microphone cord.

oh, how i wish that it was
feasible,
possible,
probable...

i need to keep writing.
you are nothing more
than feverish scribbles,
bolded terms in books.

they used to explain
everything
so goddamn simple.
what happened?

i remember when
i possessed so much
self control, poise.
now i'm raging.

this storm is never
quiet; just bleak,
wind and rain
whipping at your cheeks.

i am half out of my head,
half inside the ocean.
we got what we needed
from those glass bottles.

remind me again when
it settles.
when the sand is still,
the water dark.

i'll lie like the
vitruvian man
the water will
swallow me whole.

i'll be in the belly
of the ancient world,
floating peacefully,
drifting eternally.