landmines raze new hairline cracks mar the swollen face of this old guitar. the bottom string buzzes everywhere. the high e tuned down half a step is dead above the twelfth fret. she watches some bland sitcom without a laugh track. the song that plays over a traffic jam montage makes me feel like dancing. i find two notes that still sound like themselves, mute what fights to be fully felt with the palm of one hand, and sing: kill yourself. kill yourself. she doesn't hear me. doesn't even see me. in the other half of the room, two couches sit side by side, cluttered with clothes and felted giraffes. these must be things someone else threw away. there's a black_cat with a grey patch sewn into its stomach. a pillow that doubles as a pet. i'm surprised to see her alone. wearing blue and white pyjamas. clutching a bowl of cereal that's down to the milk. she asks if i'll bring what's left of her breakfast into the kitchen and run it under warm water. i was going to offer anyway. she tells me the giraffes aren't rejects. she found them at the dollar store. a surprise. a gift. two of them could be cousins of the one i've loved as long as i've been alive. at least we know they didn't step on a landmine and lie about their feelings, she says. at least we know that much. 230316 what's it to you? who go blather from