The only weapon left to me is profanity.
My disbelief runs so deep I can’t tell reality
from the shattering glass my numb hand knocked over
or maybe I just won’t acknowledge it.
Who am I to condemn one existence as the unalterable truth
over an equally viable one? 

The balloon of ruined birthday parties is trying to tell me something.
When the plastic fills so quickly, so completely it’s fit to burst and scatter shards of multicolored latex so thick they cloud the sky and block the sun,
when the helium injects that chemical sustenance into my bloodstream straight through the intestines,
that’s when all I can do is lick my lips, preparing for that delicious rebellion that staged a coup from the first repression,
and I think you would agree
on the only appropriate response. 

Throw my hands up in relieved submission
fuck it.