Self-Portrait as a Zombie
I am breathing, but I don’t feel my pulse.
Walking with a limp, I am too young.
If a scientist were to examine
my tissue under a microscope,
would he conclude this is
the next phase in human evolution?
That even as deep as my bone marrow,
I am as human as they come?
Maybe when it gets dark enough,
I can catch my spirit
like a firefly in the night sky
and toss my festering parts into a dumpster.
Sometimes I can feel my ghost
knocking on my flesh.
The door is stuck.
There’s Enough Air to Go Around
I was in an unhealthy relationship with social anxiety. She would use my mind to choke my spirit while my hands played with my phone. She was rushing me; I felt like I was running late. I needed air, trying to get my head above the surface of a sea of people. We broke up. I lost comfort in being uncomfortable. Now she’s just my crazy ex. I’m trying to get a restraining order. The Blue Fairy made me into a real boy. Lolita is trying to find her groove. Let’s breathe.
Robert Rosado is currently taking a poetry writing course at Boston University. His work has not yet been published. He spends every Sunday night watching The Walking Dead.