#im fine ps so is my cat it is a metaphor

[greylunar]

Hat Trick by Casper Grey Transcription under the cut

Hat Trick I am writing you a poem because it is the only thing I know how to write. I am writing you a poem because I worry if I wrote you a letter I would sound like a deranged lunatic, or at least concerning, manic like the time I thought Allen Ginsberg’s ghost had possessed me and you had to google whether or not he was dead. I am writing you a letter because it is my secret trick to remind myself I am alive or perhaps I am writing it because whenever I feel alive I have to write you a poem because it is the only thing I know how to and at this point, the Pavlov between living and writing is so intertwined I am either a ghost or a poet and rarely ever a self. I tried to give myself a new name today. I tried to look him/her/them in the eye but they looked away, I am uncomfortable with strangers and we had never met before. I dug the self I buried in the yard last week up and asked him to play nice, he wanted to know if he forgave me yet and I told him forgiveness and I are kind of in an awkward place with our relationship now, we are seeing other people. I am irrationally worried I will snap and murder my cat so I am writing you a poem. I have not yet killed my house plants and I have not yet killed myself, only the daisies in the garden which I cut back and the boys and girls I used to be who I gently pat more dirt over so we can pretend we all live happily in the apartment complex of my body, I am not what I look like when I picture a happy home. I am writing a poem for you to apologize for being 80 years old and still having daddy issues I am 14 years old and waiting for a train to come, talking to god, 22 and admitting I am the messiah only in the sense that god is a fuzzy object with less than 20/20 vision and I am made in their image and therefore I am writing you a poem because there is nothing else to do. There is nowhere else to go. I have return addressed this letter to your house so either way you have to get it. I do this because I have always chickened out of saying what happens if one day I am not in love with you, not because it will ever be true, but because I do not like naming the fear. I worry that if I poke a single hole in my hope it will drop like a lead balloon or a star producing iron which is to say I still recite my father’s metaphors and I am worried that I love like him, something I could not forgive myself for any less than him. I worry I will drown myself and the cat in the bath at different times this is all I know how to do. I woke up fine this morning, moved to another room, woke up trying to scream, moved to the couch, woke up uncertain I had woken, woke up certain I had been screaming, woke up too alone to prove it how often do you worry your mother resents you? I am a man with a broken finger pointing at different parts of himself asking “is this normal?” I am a girl in the back of a subaru certain the man outside the window is going to kill her, I am the angel driving the taxi cab asking if I would like to know how good I am Yes. How good do you think? I don’t know, not like, I mean, not like 90% material but I think I’m more than 50/50 you know? 96 percent. Oh shit, well, awesome. How good are you? 50/50. I thought you were an angel God wants to make sure we know how to use both. I am writing you a letter that is also a taxicab that I am using as a murder accessory in a hit and run to kill my cat and then my father. I know I only truly love one of these two things but I am still too scared to ask. I heard there’s going to be a parade. I am writing you a poem to ask why they are called floats. I am 30 and I am laughing because I have always liked puns and I once drowned myself in the bathtub I am writing a poem because you are the one who googles things in the relationship because I never learned to write simple fucking questions or ask them and I once was a boy who ate omelets for eight years straight because he couldn’t ask himself to stop and now I am a girl with tits and a shovel in her hand thinking about dismembering herself to make the burying a little easier. I am writing a poem to ask for help I am writing a poem to avoid sleeping I am writing you a poem because I love you and I am scared that will not be enough. If I have to bury you you will not get up. Fuck what if I did get possessed and that’s how this body thing works? I am getting feedback from the microphone so I go back to the paper. My mother pats me on the shoulder, knees uncomfortable and cold on the linoleum, holds my hair back over the toilet “you just gotta get it all out, baby.” Have you seen the magician’s trick with the hat and the scarves? Of course you have. I am writing you a poem in the hopes that it will end, if it doesn’t I’m really fucked aren’t I? Sun helps the garden grow. I wish I was a farmer, instead. Or at least, if I have to be me, that I was crazy enough to kill the cat. I let her out in the dead of night so she can talk to her ghosts while I talk to mine. I am writing you a poem because I am scared no one is out there, that I am the only “I” I will ever be. I love you, not forgiveness, who slept with resignation behind my back. I am tired. It is too cold to sleep outside. What if the cat doesn’t come back? Will I just have to write out here all night?