tupperware blues

Love is stored in the parts
of my brain that don’t
work properly, but that’s ok!
I am trying to make it
work for me. If I cannot have
organically grown happiness,
then I will make myself
my own store-bought one,
antique vases and brocade
skirts to coax my shy 
amygdala. I will cook
my own joy in a lab, like
those steaks grown from
human cells, bloody and
lustful. If I cannot find it
within myself, I will find love
in other places. It is stored
in my friend sending me 
a photo of a record in a shop
that had my name on it, in
me bringing cherries to
his house, in us eating them
together, savouring the 
flesh stuck to wooden pits
and spitting them out. I 
could live forever in the
warmth of other people’s
cats, in the spark of strangers’
fireworks. Please tell me I
am not alone, and I will
store my happiness in you.
I promise, it doesn’t take
up too much space. It’s just
enough for a human to hold.

Featured photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash.


In a dream, you saw a way to survive, and you were filled with joy.


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