tonight i’m stillborn / a.k.a envisioning / demands from god, why /
his st breaks into / my open mouth again and / again to salvage /
some black skeleton / or a stomach of prozac / hardening into /
beetleshell or this / throat of antennae leaving / me. everything takes /
too long to die so / i write it down instead—good / bullets and good thoughts— / like the time i stashed / my pocketknife on the top / kitchen shelf after / googling ocd / suicide rate because yes, / i know it’s hard to /
be decent sometimes / but i’m trying, i really / am is what i told /
my therapist last / night crying and all until / she said you know it’s /
okay to stop right / but again, i’m still a child / and don’t know a thing. / when time starts again, / another faulty neuron / on a hunting spree, / i’m the last alive / but the rst witness and since / there’s a beginning / there must be an end / too so i’ll let a past life / know which is to say /
by the time i’ll have / killed, there’ll be three love poems / buried at least, waiting:
