Part of It
And this, too, is part of it,
all of this useless crying
in your bedroom,
gripping something soft because life
is hard. Listening to
some mournful song over and over even though
this is the sonic equivalent of letting yourself drown.
Turning off the lights and closing your eyes and
just letting it wash over you because,
is it not your job as a poet to feel?
And so you do.
You feel sad and miserable and more alone.
You feel ignored and unworthy and abandoned,
like you are four years old again and do not know
where your father has gone but the sour way your mother
smokes her cigarettes now makes you feel mildly responsible.
You dig your hands into the inky blackness of your feeling
and make a paste for your skin that you leave on
until you think it will suffocate you.
You think about dying again.
You picture the drop off the top of your building
until you can practically feel the splat
but what if you became trapped in your body and
just had to lie there, broken?
At least your bed is a more comfortable place
in which to lie broken than the street.
You wonder how bleach would taste and how long you would
have to endure it before it liquefied your insides.
You think about Lacey. You think they won’t miss you as much
as they do her. You could only ever be a bad imitation
of her art, now, anyway and you know how much you hate
You think about everything you need to write and everybody who
claims their affinity for this package you are walking around in
and those others who share your blood and ultimately
it is the cat that brings you back because
they would surely kill him, especially after he’d
eaten new holes in your face and fucked them.
The force animating your body is his only saving grace
even if it is not yours.
It’s important to have something like that,
especially if you are prone to lying in your bed in the dark
and thinking about death as a reasonable solution
to your petty fucking problems.