This will hurt.
That’s what he said.
The first word was pointing at my chest
with a BB gun, shot three hundred times
but he was anything but random.
I chose him, like how I chose the color purple
for a sunset and he missed one-third
of our conversations about bumper-to-bumper traffic.
There was another lane and he went there,
away from the sunset in my throat and me.
The second word, held the future
and it was mostly about wrinkly hands
and arthritis. So I would raise my fingers
to my eyes and pretend that I’m moving
them after a comatose just to reach his.
Just to keep mine inside that space,
I used to own. I count the months,
and years, and he tells me, forever.
I never thought forever would mean
the sound of door hinges opening and closing
to human-sized twisters in my lungs.
The last word, was the only word I’m left
finding definitions to. Should I start
with the twisting of the doorknob?
Should I start with the unfinished dishes in the sink?
Or by the time he entered the room, placed
his bag on the couch and leaned?
I’m sorry, was what he said next.
That moment, I realized,
I have never written any poems
I’ve lost track of days. I am not certain if I wake to greet mornings or evenings anymore.
The one single constant I am aware of is this deep, sinking feeling that inhabits the entirety of my body.
Now, back to sleep.Wednesday April 16th
Normal, functioning members of society shouldn’t have to be burdened by matters as frivolous as my own psychotic existence.
But if you have ever contemplated or attempted to kill yourself, then you may have come to realize how much of a catch-22 the entire situation really is.Sunday April 13th