it's ironic, yeah.

Isn't it ironic--
everything?
I'm so quick to be broken
but slow to admit break-ability--
secret?
I'm more fragile than the good china
you gauge your social importance on,
than the porcelain dolls you paint
your lies into,
than the crystal that really
never was beautiful enough,
no matter how many times you cut it--
following, dear?

and it's ironic, how everything falters
just when you've balanced your last follicle
of sanity on the ripped binding of the last book
on the fourth corner of that glass table,
right in the center--RIGHT IN THE CENTER!
and suddenly you're human, again--
WORSE, your fucking china.

it is ironic, isn't it, love?
--how we build ourselves up to each other
only to rip one another down
to our own jagged levels
and how we break
when no one's watching
in the corner of the foyer
next the fireplace that holds up the mantle
they should've glued me down to . . .

and it's ironic, also, that everything becomes nothing
when nothing seems to feel real anymore,
with reality pounding on the French doors
11 years past, through the swinging exits of my mind,
like that dream I had . . .
that one night I dreamed . . .
until my eyelids stung
with the skeletons we'd ground up into our
dinner salads.

[ we fell asleep twitching, yeah. ]