desporgasm:

Stringing Beads

And me,
I keep losing things.

In the womb
my reproductive system lost track
of half its capability.
A fiberglass camera couldn’t find it either.
Ghost sperm slide down superaquaparc tubes
the colour of fish guts
on the way to impregnate
ovum lost in the
almost human,
poets before us.

In grade school
I lost an argument
with a bat
when Nicholas swung
at a fastball,
and there went nine half teeth
and four good nerves
to stupidity and
reflex.
It hurt when I breathed.
My lips stung when I ate
later, on account of the splinters.
There’s bubble gum against my tongue
where pieces of me used to be.
I got to keep the bat.

At eighteen I got a job
throwing boxes,
sometimes heavier than me
on a palette, building blocks
you could stack on racks
in rooms that eat
your sense of proportion
with giant’s mouths
In the gap between the
Belgian chocolate covered cookies
and the
Bombardier crates,

I lost my balance
on the rear of a forklift
and my big toe
beneath the weight of stability
and a solid tire.

I don’t know what to write
about months of ceaseless cramping pain,
about a wound that filled the room
with its musty, muted smell.

And I’m slower than
those kids I laughed at
in high school.

Sometimes I fall,
usually when no one is looking,
but occasionally they catch me,
and nobody understands
how we walk,
how hard it is to balance
on a skateboard
that keeps turning.

At night (cuz you’ve let it)
it can’t help but
itch and feel
there, but strangely foreign,
like replacing
a part of you with silly putty
that fucking hurts.

At twenty
I lost my father.
And my mother lost herself,
couldn’t keep track of us after that.
My sister, well
she lost them
and I lost her,
while my brother
never really had anyone.
I still talk to them
When the cable is out.

Where do these memories come from
about parts of me
that don’t exist,
things which couldn’t have happened?

I’ve gotten increasingly worried
that
I don’t know what the fuck is going on.