shitty friend

spencermadsen:

for me, the worst part
about you being a shitty friend
is the perfect sense it makes
i understand you have a boyfriend now
cool, what’s that like, totally unique right
you’re in love, isn’t it great
it’s just you and him
isn’t being apart just the most painful thing
can i tell you something though
wait until you start intentionally hurting each other
wait until that happens, when one of you sleeps
with someone else 
just to prove a point
wait until the reason for this thing you’re building together
becomes clear, wait until you realize
its purpose is to have something to ruin
and when i was laughing at the schizophrenic guy
who earlier was trying to persuade himself
to stop talking to us, i was laughing with sympathy
for the part of him that’s earnest and reasonable
and understands the social cues that his other half
can’t seem to obey out of reckless neediness
i was laughing because who can’t relate to that
can you relate to that, can you give me that at least
can you give me a sign that you’re still my friend
can you be vulnerable for just a sec
i know we’re different people but that’s the point
you’re asleep in a room with the first boyfriend you’ve loved
yet to notice the song’s been on repeat
and i’m thinking about trying not to think
a circle as pointless as trying sometimes
to tell the recklessly needy person inside you
to just stop talking, but can I ask something
of you and your boyfriend, 
can you guys
start hurting each other

haiku

spencermadsen:

brent johnston, nature 
activist, died this morning 
when a fallen tree,

I knew from the first or second time we drank that I’d always remember the way liquor brushed her face with the seamless colors of autumn, as if she were home from a day of sun, eager perhaps, to see me. With calm eyes she often told me about her dreams. Sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes morning, or many days after. I was always featured. She said it took time to find the right memory of us to combat the perception of me her mind forged in sleep. I was a fascist, a petty tyrant, or a frightening hobbled animal that spoke in translation. I was anxiety materialized. When she found the right memory of us, of me, to pit against the form I took in her dream, she would let the two loose in a back room of her consciousness. She was the only member of the audience, a position that put pressure on her, and a burden I couldn’t share.