a taxidermist in my spare time

it's always the last week of november when i'm making up statistics to say how awfully uncomprehensible i am.  and it's always at exactly a quarter to eleven when i'm writing about nothing except for the vomit in your eyes or the blood in your mouth or another cliche of how pissed off/upset/overdramatic

i am not in love, and i am not dressing corpses in your clothes, and i am not in love, and i am not lying to 500 strangers right now, and i am not in love, and i am not pretending that the sweat in your hair or the vomit on your skin or the blood on our tongues is anything other than some absurd metaphor for fuck you.    fuck you.       Fuck you, because i've been stuffing stockings with christmas lists three weeks early to get the only present i want/need/despise, which just so happens to be in the future, and i need a time machine just to visit it, because i really just want to

see you.
Fuck you,
because i've been stuffing Death for the last three hours with cotton and fluff, then sprinkling it with glitter – fucking glitter! so it doesn't smell at least half as bad as the morgue of dead skin cells and rotting flesh stink you were hired at last week because you fit right in with all the other cadavers that don't give a shit about the living, breathing trainwreck poets like me, and and and, i will change my locks twelve times before we die, even though you've never even been to my house, because let's face it: i am nothing to you, no matter how many hearses it takes to sneak me into someone else's funeral.  and i have to eat eight million and twelve more carcinogens before next month, you know, and bathe in my sanity wearing a plethora of autopsy sweaters,
because this year, winter is hotter than two million and three degrees, lonelier than two million and three coffins, faker than two million and three wishing wells, uglier than two million and three unread/unwritten/unthought eulogies,
and, and, and i'm running out of ways to say the same thing disguised as something new in order to impress the critics and cynics because they all remind me of how cynical and critical you are so i'm just going to have to pretend i know what the hell i'm talking about,
even though you're the only one i'd rather pretend-to-talk to.  but in case you haven't checked your gregorian calendar this decade, it's the last week of november and i'm still not in love.