I’m sitting in the Black park listening to Black music thinking about the Black friend who doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. If I told you they didn’t want to talk to me because they love me so much you would have to believe me because you got to the end of this sentence.  If every version of me is someone you know I’m sorry. The version most like best is the one they just met. The version you leave is the one you know. If you tell on me and don’t decorate the language you are selling me out in poor taste. I don’t understand space and I don’t always care what I mean. I think everyone who hates me should point a finger and see three fingers pointing back at them. I think missing me is the same as wanting me gone. I think being nauseous meant you were along for the ride. I spun you in circles pulled the moon from the sky and hoped you wouldn’t drown when the tides couldn’t control themselves. I did nothing to stop it and I knew the consequences but if I tell you it wasn’t on purpose please believe me.  I’ve never cared enough to cause harm with purpose. I am ruled by Jupiter and when it cracked I became the lucky planet instead. If you made it to the end I got your attention. Don’t worry. Your discomfort is your friend.