I fantasize (about d/lying)

a lot. This makes me, de

pending on my doctor,

a lie-ability. Cue laughter.

Cue a performance of

my lifetime. I’m nothing

like the person I was

on the page. My sibling

makes my hairs raise–

really, more like a spider

-sense for anything bad

in the midst of happening.

I correct them, adaptation

& adaption are different.

The former is for movies

& the latter is for animals.

I guess. No more snakes

slither into the games we

won’t play. The ladder lifts

us out of here. No one mourns

the erasure of Xtain values

or whatever or is an X-men

villain. We no longer live

as comic book characters

or that’s what Disney wants

you to believe. Swapping

everything for each other,

my dolls no longer belong

to me; their fourth grade

art is undergoing revision

ist history. Pinky promises

discreetly encircle my gag

gle of friends, dying is not

allowed. We’re certain, un

less it’s a death of natural ca

uses. Or if the universe grind

s into stardust & soot; the

laws that govern reality

get overturned entirely. I

interject. Like earth-1610

in the comics, he texts. Yes,

precisely. We count movie

release dates from home &

dream of what’s possible if

robots don’t take our jobs.

| Editor’s Note: who says I could

not just speak mistruths? No

I don’t want to die Yes I would

not want another life if I was

g(r)i(e)ven on(c)e! My sibling &

I are twins & we know how that

goes! Don’t you remember? You

started it, I say like an older sib

l(y)ing, as if it’s like I don’t need

my mother to straighten out

the story, to stop the conflict.

To be honest, we were never

twins! Scouring the past out

until it’s synergistic with the

movies you love so much. |

I can’t (under) stand how

nothing saves us. My push

to keep a chronology again

st our past is naive like the

second person I make up in

the poem having a tongue of

a rattlesnake & hands ablaze

& because I needed to. I have

to rehearse my lines. All my

teeth falling out, I apologize–

not like it’s saving my expert

ise in changing our parents

minds & child bone density–

there’s no bite or bark left.

I can’t tell you how fantastic

the next issue is. I can’t tell

how the futility in the change

of the status quo is good.

So let me lay (or is it lie? I

need an editor) down in an

electric shuttle-box so I’ll

be the bad lab (experiment

of my nightmares.) Adaption

can’t be reformed after birth.

| Spoiler: I die in this one. I die

in all of them.

I know I’m only supposed to

tell you about the past but

that’s for someone in the

future to fix. |

I can’t tell if I can grasp

the danger of fiction & h

ow its fangs come out. But

I promise you

nothing has changed.