Bath Salts, Not Even Once

It’s not that the octopus wouldn’t love you—

It’s that you shouldn’t love him.

He is trapped in that box for a reason.

You are more than welcome to watch,

even brave sticking your arm in his domain.

He’ll twirl his arms around yours.

Each little suction cup will feel

like a love bite, leaving circular splotches.

Blemishes will remind you of your childhood—

chicken pox—

those came from those damn dinosaurs—

that Tyson chicken nuggets claimed

to be healthy for children

to sing ring around the rosy.

Make sure you carry posies

or death

from the embracing arms with dozens

of tiny eyes that stick to your skin

rolling, sliding

sucking

like the purple waves.

They have teeth, they’re gnawing on your flesh—

You’re hungry.

No—sick.

Definitely sick.

It’s not that you wouldn’t love the octopus—

Because you do, you really do.

It’s just that he hates you.

You with your big eyes, flappy nostrils

and wings.

You can fly!

Like a bird or a plane

or a pig.

You imagine their wings would taste delicious,

like vanilla sky.

Clouds are made of ice cream,

unlike snow—

maybe that’s why the octopus doesn’t love you.

If he played in the snow once,

in the strange disease

that seems to have taken over your world

like aliens—

brain suckers—

suction cups—

those are octopus kisses.

Will he ever love you?

Perhaps, love the snow—

yes you know he would love it

as much as you love him.

You smell…iron?

*sniffle*

running down your throat.

It’s not that the octopus never loved you—

You simply forgot his birthday—

Tomorrow—

of next year.

That is one, two, nineteen, one-hundred and seventy two

months from when winter ends

the number of stardust flakes you see

and more of those tiny dragons appear

with red—no orange—stomachs.

Your chest feels heavy

*thump thump*

blood slithers like a snake on steroids

Maybe, the octopus always loved you—

Or maybe, you’re still learning to love him.