A Pity Party

The nickle
didn't weigh much,
chipped from thumb.
It didn't make a sound against the wishing well walls
on its way to the pool
and silhouette expectant.
Ripples and a splunk.
Unlucky forever.
I know I could
make a
sound.

Detox

Watching a Japanese firebrand
whip up a dish and spit lyrically
sonorous of luck and hard work
while customers guffaw, I feel
handcuffed.  How do I not speak
fluently in.  Tapestries of fragments.
Yep.  800 words for yes in my
vernacular.  1100 words and
phrases for no.  Counting
inflections, of course.
Talking you down in the bathroom mirror: "I believe in"
panting heavy.
Other lives.
Other time.
A galaxy
far, far,
away.

Smoker 63

I dunno why she hit me.
Alcohol.
And Xanax and Klonopin and
the rest of the family.
Frustration with
death.
Knowing the chalk will be there
long after the detectives
and theories have gone away.
To die
four thousand two hundred and eighty one times.

The family.  The totems to power
an engine capable of collapsing stars.
Constellations winked out of existence
with a sigh and a "cheers!"

The "what if"s
tapped
from the end of the sound,
rattled bones,
against garbage can bodies.
Interned and buried
still breathing.
Your mistake
was
leaving us alive.              Footnote 4A56: storytelling trope #830

No one ever said you have to kill yourself
at once.  Rules are made to be broken.  Paws
for applause.
It is a strange rabbit hole
to pursue.
There is nothing beyond self loathing and escape.
To be afraid of embracing yourself
is fractal.
To understand that you cannot be
is torture.
To understand that you should not be
is light.
To understand that you are
is power

to leave constructs behind.
Water is wet.
The wind blows.
Stone is stony.
Leaves are fibrous.
Fire is fluid.
Sadness is absence and so is happiness.

There once was an all knowing all being that made an awl.

To live long enough to see the world end.

How many times should one die
before


                                        Halt.