i talked to a stranger on the phone
it wasn't the face i've known
but i'm pretty sure it had his bones
i walked a minefield of catching up
with the hollow cheeked husk
of a man i used to love

I sit here,
Like a beetle on its back,
In a crack of its own design,
Crafting its own demise,
Frantically flailing,
Panicking mainly—

...until Chad rolls by on an electric scooter.

"Oi, mate!" he shouts,
Toblerone crumbs on his shirt,
flipping me right-side up with a casual shove.
Life isn't death's right-hand man anymore;
it's Chad's co-pilot, cruising on mismatched wheels.

The universe? Doesn't listen to "enough is enough,"
but apparently, it does respond to
"******, this beetle's stuffed!"

Yeah, mate. Guess this in’t the end.
Not with Chad around.

As it stands now
One of us is a fool
It’s probably me
But it might be you

he had Batman socks and multicolored bracelets
he said time didn’t exist and people are fragile
he gave out pink flowers and talked about pink flamingos
we shared a sandwich and hugged
we said nice to meet you and shook hands
he was warm and kind and peaceful
his talking topics were like stones skipped across a heavy pond
I was a dragonfly investigating ripples
he was silent for long intervals, head bobbing up and down, as he pondered things I said
he made a metal dinosaur skeleton bracelet do a little dance

I fell in love with him right away

Ashamed, ashamed—
Like I’m eight but I’m twenty-four.
Ashamed, ashamed,
Like the kid I was before.
Ashamed, ashamed,
Is this what you raised me for?
Ashamed once more.

You make me a little kid,
Just because you think you can.
I’ll always be that child,
That you torture again and again.
Make another joke,
Scream a bit louder,
Say how my brother always makes you prouder.

The same old words,
You’ve said them before—
You make me feel eight at twenty-four.
Say his name, his joy, his love,
Belittle me in front of those I adore.
Push me to the edge one step more,
Maybe I won’t make it to twenty-five,
When you make me feel eight at twenty-four.