James Knapp

To Toothlessness

Here’s to never growing up
if it includes getting sober.

Here’s to the happy hours
we spent at home.

Here’s to slinging beers for breakfast
and vomiting tonic for supper.

Here’s to the leftovers we made last
all week.

Here’s to fangs; we made them ourselves
from filing down our fillings.

Here’s to killing the time we never had
in the first place.

Here’s to losing fights we started
for reasons we don’t remember.

Here’s to waking up alone
and still feeling surprised.

Here’s to our princess,
who is in another castle.

Here’s to clinging to the notion we can be loved.

Here’s to watching the majesty of a sunset
simply because we had nothing better to do.

Here’s to the lies we never
expected anyone to believe.

Here’s to making sure everyone
sees how little we care.

Here’s to never admitting to our mistakes.

Here’s to all the bosses we wish
we’d told to fuck off.

Here’s to the fury we felt fine refusing.

Here’s to standing alone on a rooftop
and hoping someone else will jump.

Here’s to the spilt milk
we left to curdle in the sink.

Here’s to the nicotine addiction
that helps us still feel young.

Here’s to the depression it’s no longer
cool to suffer from.

Here’s to all the times we should have cried.

Here’s to the friends we ghosted
the week before they died.

Here’s to the address books we filled
with excuses instead of phone numbers.

Here’s to the confusion as to why
we’re still alone, while we refuse to leave the corner,
for even a moment.

Here’s to a master’s class in playing dead.

Here’s to toothlessness, my friends.

At the Apex of The Spiral

At the apex of the spiral
our new landlord had just cashed
the deposit check
and we were making plans to leave
my studio apartment
and the squat you said you hated,
to move into a grand and glorious
third floor two bedroom.
We’d have enough space for a nursery
if we wanted.

At the apex of the spiral
I kissed your forehead every morning
before I left for work, and half asleep
you’d contentedly moan
and your body would roll
a little under the twin-sized covers.

At the apex of the spiral
We went out drinking three times a week
and played pool, and you
would let me break when you were feeling shy
and I would let you win
when you needed to.
And we probably drank too much,
I know I did,
but when something feels so good
it’s easy to ignore the damage
it can cause.

At the apex of the spiral
you bought me trinkets from thrift stores
that I still keep in some small way,
like the uranium glass dish on the counter
that holds my keys and Chapstick.
And I bought you binders
to hide your chest, things
I’m sure the hormone therapy
has long since made obsolete.

At the apex of the spiral
I invited you to my family’s
Thanksgiving dinner.
You asked if we could visit
your parents’ graves.

At the apex of the spiral
you realized it was over
long before you ever told me,

the day you whipped me
then cried after to ensure I knew
there’s no way it was your fault.

Screaming fights on friends’ porches
where I tried to convince you that
everything would be okay, and you proved
how much better you were
at arguing than me.

I started spending nights dialing
unreturned calls, sending morning texts
asking if you were alright. Going straight
from the office to the bar
where I would drink too much
and when you finally showed up
I’d see how angry you would get
that I was upset.

I spent morning drives to work
wondering who else was waking up
next to you now and if they kissed
your forehead the same way
that I did.

How I unfairly clung onto us,
terrified and abandoned
but still in love.
Resentful how it seemed so easy
for you to move back into the squat
you said you hated, with strangers’ faces
I never brought myself
to look in the eye.

The landlord informed me that the deposit
was non-refundable as the spiral
descended and collided
into liquor store boxes
filling with your things,
loose clothes and art supplies,
sex toys and love letters,
trinkets from thrift stores;
I remember when you bought them,
handed to me like an engagement ring
or a pink slip from the office
that used to make me hate to leave
you in the morning.

But I’ve learned to stop blaming you
for leaving me at the bottom of the spiral,
on a silent drive across town
after leaving liquor store boxes on your crumbling porch,
on my way to the bar
where we’d played pool at the apex.
And once again I let you win,
because I guess you needed it
but were too shy to tell me.

James is a menace to society and not to be trusted. He also writes for The Hard Times, Mcsweeney's, End of the Bench, Points In Case and anyone else who is willing to buy him a sandwich.