a poem.

It's been a long time since my terrible Slam days.

Shot In The Dark
Summer Burton

I am fighting unrealness.
It is a desperate and violent battle,
this fight for solidity.
The glow of computer screens and the
tender martyrdom of unrequited love
punches my gut and pierces my chest.
But I will not give up on actual touch, actual taste.

I was thinking about placing a classified ad.

SWF seeks something that will make her hands hurt,
but not her heart.

I have been having dreams about guns,
or maybe about not-guns. Dreams about
not knowing how to hold a gun,
or release the safety. Or shoot. Or breathe.
Dreams where I don’t know how to be not-safe.
Dreams in which the simple metal burns my hand
and I drop the thing immediately. Also, horses.

I know am going to win the fight.

SWF seeks someone who will show her how to shoot,
or give her something else to dream about. Either way.

I have been drinking more whiskey,
It was a conscious choice.
Doesn’t whiskey seem more real than other things?
Like water, wine, or milk? Milk is the most unreal of all;
suckling past infancy on another animal.
When did that ever make sense to anyone?
Where was I when this decision was made?

I am becoming more real every day, see?

SWF seeks ten-thousand weapons and an equal amount
anesthetic. SWF seeks a solution. SWF seeks.