I sat down to write an angry poem.
I wanted to write about all the things that are wrong. I would start with my crooked driving, the imperceptibility of tears over distance, the growing number of almost-addictions filling the gaps between my teeth.
I sat down to pepper the world with angst. I wanted to spread the page with the dirty parts of my life, pushing filled ashtrays and unwashed cereal bowls into the spotlight like that is mostly what I am.
I sat down to sculpt a verbal shove, to peel away from promises and prospectives and prove that I am all the things that are wrong. I wanted to write an angry poem, but by now I just
want a cigarette.