The Road to Paradise

I'm not a professional

bring me a manuscript of our last conversation-
if it's less than three pages I'll mark it with a zero.
write me an essay and then make a translation-
if I don't like the language
you'll fail.

print me a picture,
it better be professional-
make it have a headline,
or whatever that stupid little bit of text at the bottom is called.

let's go out,
but don't wear that-
I can't go out in sweatpants.
I'll look ridiculous,
and my dad says those aren't real clothes.

I'm deaf to the world around me.
not because I can't hear,
or because I don't want to hear,
I'm just too tired to hear your stupid opinion.
especially if the opinion is a magical way to solve my problems-
the same magical way.
the only way to make me better.
I already know that answer and I already know I'm taken care of-
why don't you give me real advice?
but maybe I should ask someone else-
the people around me are hypocrites.

I love you.
I've said it a thousand times
and it doesn't feel real.
it's not real.
this isn't real.
maybe if I climbed up to the tallest tree
and fell off onto my head
it would knock my brain back into place
and I would be normal.

I don't want to feel this way.
you push and pull me and you tear me apart,
but I'm not the tide and I'm not a piece of steak
or bread
or chicken
or whatever good things people like to eat.

but if I was the tide
I would crash up against rocks.
I'm angry,
and maybe you'd drown.
if I was a piece of meat
I would be so chewy.
I'm angry,
and you would choke.

but really

I'd never let you drown or choke
I'd never let you fall,
I'll be there for it all-
even when it kills me.