I miss being confident.
Having a secure attachment style.
I miss not being on antidepressants
or anti-anxiety pills
or testosterone.
Being content with life.
I miss my in-laws—
More like family than my actual family.

I miss a life that doesn’t turn itself inside-out every other week.
One week, I’m Dad of the Year.
My kismet, supposedly, according to astrology.
Demystifying geometric terminology,
explaining the difference between punching up and punching down,
helping girl scouts glue
and get
Their shit together.

The next, I’m wearing eye-liner
Mascara
Deep inhale of poppers;
searching for an escape.
Like an episode of Euphoria — surrounded by
Creatures of the night.
The duality of man isn’t poetic.
It’s fucking comedic.
But like, the Shakespearean version of comedy…
Tragic.
Heartbreaking.
Wretched.
But wretched enough to laugh hysterically at.
People win Oscars for playing these types of roles, after all.
Can I at least get some residuals out of this?
No? Fine.

I’m not a fucking poet, anyway.
But this poetry class sure makes me want to be one.
I googled how to write poetry—
Find different words.
Avoid is/was/are, when possible.
Be vulnerable.
Experiment
With
Line Breaks.
Whatever.

So I put on my eyeliner and mascara
And put the lip gloss in my pocket for later
As I plan my temporary
slipfast
drift
Windows down, racing,
Crisp night sky enters
Montrose lures.
Madonna or Gaga drown out the voice
Telling me to stay home.
Gin and tonics mute my poor, wrinkled brain
Filling in the cracks, to make it smooth.
Smooth brains don’t think.
It’s an insult, and a metaphor
so it works.
Choking it
when it screams at me to stop numbing it.

And I wear the makeup
Instead of the makeup wearing me.
Because you need confidence to pull off wearing makeup.