as we talk to god on bathroom floors.

why am i so good at this

these jokes where i’m the punchline

as i lie on this fucking floor

wishing for the words to come.

only silence

cold, clean tiles

and bubblewrapped angels

where the butterflies used to be.

i was right i suppose

about that whole not forcing words shit

but goddamn

the irony is a bit ludicrous.

—“Adversus solem ne loquitor.”

—don’t speak against the sun.

i don’t even remember where i heard it

but still:

what a crock of shit.

i see you up there.

so well played god; well played.

you win this round.

you fuck.