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​Confessional in Ten American Sentences

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I build a nest of my own
hair in the drain
every time I shower.

Hair is a sedimentary record
of the in-house life of death.

I got your voicemail
on repeat
while I boil
a pack of ramen.

I talk too much;
I cringe in lieu of flowers
and mosey out backwards.

In a past life I was a crawdad
billowing creek mud in my wake.

In this life, it’s inappropriate
to throw mud
at other dads’ wakes.

Life can make you so nervous
your hair falls out, it’s a pile-on
of stress.

Denial is one way
to cope: when life gives you nests
make nesting dolls.

My body is a temple
wild with monkeys
to scare you away.

My brain just goes there,
I’m sorry: everyone I’ll ever love
will die.