Ballad of the Bruised Lung

Many things happen in your life that shouldn’t:
the black spot that grew into cancer, the sub compact

that just could not wait to meet you; maybe things do
happen for a reason but that reason is stupid. Maybe

your brother fell out of a window only because
he’s an asshole. I love you, but I can’t keep

letting you show up where I am and remind me
of what I said to you all those times

I was drunk that one time. Most of them were just
hurtful nonsense, but I am proud of “You are like

a comet: every so often you come around
to fuck up my shit.” In a perfect world, all the towns

in Illinois would be named “Blood” so I could
no longer pick out yours on a map. When you’re dumb

enough for long enough, you’re gonna meet someone
too smart to love you, and they’re gonna love you

anyway, and it’s gonna go so poorly. It must be
odd for our mutual friends who like me more

but think you were right. To say I hate you would imply
a world in which I kissed more than your stomach. Look,

we’ve established that I’m a jerk, so let me say this:
I am a flat tire and you are a pothole full of lug nuts.

I am a pile of bricks and you are holding a sledgehammer,
which is to say I would not exist without you.