My friends are confused, complex people their voices ring with different truths, their hands are different sizes. We pluck lint from garage sale carpets and fight white knuckled through winters of discontent, swollen with an invisible exhaustion, throwing punches at anything close enough to catch living, breathing, us. We’ve been left here so many times before, as hard to move as the daughter at the funeral, an all encompassing collapse into pizza boxes, erotic art and the alienation of hedonism. Our Bohemia is spread out on a bed forgetting beta-blockers, she’s burying the hatchet but remembering where it is So, we’ll meet half way, even if dragged: kicking down children’s model villages or succumbing to sympathetic nervous systems I know you’ll bite my hand off but we’ll suck venom from one another’s wounds infinitely, Though sometimes we are the poison, sometimes we are the cure. Wipe my tears away with the same calloused hands you have slapped me with And push the rest under a pile of smashed glass. They won’t get to any of us, the burrowing of millennial fear and uselessness means we get to us enough. But the passion (not hate) in my sister’s’ eyes is enough to thaw my frigid fingers so I can applaud our effort to stay sane.