when we were twelve, my friend used to tell me about a black mamba snake he would see around his house while he was still in Africa. he said it was so deadly, there were scarcely any descriptions of it. he told me it might spit venom or bolts of electicity. or ichor. and it hid in the grasses. I ended up adopting it, made it some sort of mascot for my anxiety. I imagined it as being inky black with inch long fangs - " no actually only the inside of its mouth is black,” my friend corrected. “casket shaped head. thick as a child's thigh" it became the shape of any fear I couldn't quite get a handle on.

right now you're my black mamba, my fucking death serpent. I know, I know. "cliched" you'd say, "you're too starry eyed about life's extended metaphors" you once said. "you just metaphorized” I retorted, happily.

except now I have a pathological aversion to extended metaphors, especially the black mamba which is ever slithering in and out of my peripherals - the flash of face on public transit, a voice leaking down the hall, teeth marks on my neck. it was 1:45, spring of 2015 and my cell phone is dead and my car is from the year 1984. and I stalled behind the wheel with the heels of my hands digging into my eye sockets trying not to howl.  it should be clear that I have a clouded head. it should be clear that since last spring, my self esteem has been like coagulated turkey gravy.

I tried to tell someone about these cuffs of paranoia I have, and the someone told me I was being fundamentally egocentric and I had to agree. he said, “get a grip, man. you’re life is outstanding right now. have lexie fuck it out of you” he said I was being a pussy. I think I am. I’ve felt this way before, on airplanes, visiting my brother in prison, on oppressive rainy days.

I was like this on monday, baked- cookie fresh and I tried to believe in her love, but i’ve got loser dreams with crooked lines of ink flesh wrapped around my wrists.

that business on the phone yesterday felt like the black mamba. its tail coiled through the windows of my room like an eel through the skull of a cow, quivering impatiently. it came up through my core, something cold and hard, weirdness of serotonin lack, settling, curling on my tongue.“get a fucking grip.”

there you are,

exhausted from another night

of peeling apples

underneath my coffee table