We Must

Vivid and blue, wavering lightening warped onto hand-held plane;

Gobbling up the plastic and arcane, PFAS poisoning and fattened veins.

we must win they must lose

Taught lines, razors, blood, blood, blood

we must have they must have not

we must not have they must have

Each pinpoint on a blue and green elastic band, pushing, shoving

Like, one side will break free, conquer and win, instead of the whoosh of losing, the implosion that will lay us all to rest.

We are the same. We are the same.

The band cannot take much more. It is fraying, splintering, splitting beneath our feet and all we fathom are wrought knuckle grips on useless things, impossible promises.

Your curve is my concave. Your crest is my trough.

Grimaced and clenched we pull and pull, we push and push, we stare at the others, all the others, who have one pinky ascendant, one brow a creased, one nipple erect, one dog on a leash, one diamond alit atop the sweet confectionary, gelato stained windows, left askance because of the wind, the rushing of pears with bags with handles, bobbling back and forth on stomachs that grow each year—the stomach grows and grows while the heads atop become smaller and smaller.  

We must slow down. We must slow down.

Heroin and heat, titanium and fentanyl, the pummeling ascent of money in our veins as we scan for more, the next, the bigger, the better, the best. I must have. This will prove it all. This will prove I am on the screen. I am loved. I am relevant. I must have it. I must or else I will die. I will starve. No one will love me, ever, and ever, and ever. I must have it. I must have it now.

Your curve is my concave. Your crest is my trough.

We slide together under the crisp white sheet. No one can see us. We are alone. We giggle and gently touch. We kiss. No one can see us. We are alone.

Bliss.

Dorian LaGuardia
January 2024