fuck you, 2009.

the safety of
my deli wasn't
sanctuary, enough
to keep the nerves
under wraps.
saran wrap.
crystal fucking clear;
perhaps,
as to understand
the situation in
my hands, this
strength did
no justice, paying
for pastrami
as you walked out
with her.
happy new year,
you said,
a hand through
you hair,
all collected.
and me, with my trainwreck
cold-cut hands
muttered something
disheveled, something
Bland.
this art mocks my life
as it mimics it.


k.