Mostly, I want to die. Just kidding! I don’t want to die
in private. To be spied on. Your name means “killer of all things less
than entropy” in dreams. Why do they have to breakdown my ego the way they do?
Don’t use the word “ego” it’s so, I don’t know, 1970s.
            Sometimes, sex is better if you just walk away.
            Don’t go. It’s your body and yours alone I love.
            The way you fuck me is too
            much. I get that in this world that there’s also goodness.
                                Like the garden you make
                                with your five-year-old. Don’t cry. Don’t make me cry.
                                Why do you have to get all sentimental? I started
                                to dream again. Milton barked in that space
                                but I am weak and have sold my unconscious on Twitter.
            Sometimes I long for the private life,
            but I also find the concept confusing because I’m supposed
            to hate privacy, so what gives? Why did they have to go
            and erode everything? Why can’t you come back from West Florida
            and we can have a conversation about how
            there won’t be any more water for the children.
                    I name this poem “Sandman” for the selfie I killed.
                    The old poets begged for the prison doors
                    to fly open. The new ones beg for them to stay closed
                    and I am smart enough to know I’m no different.