We are each
many
death days
in a way.
God damnit
don’t tell me to
rhyme
and squeeze my
thoughts
into a mold–
this is how it happens
in the only bit
of
mystery
left
to me.
I wish it was less
ju
.m
____?’
bled,
but
I don’t
now I
think of it.
If love
weren’t
ridiculous
I’d want
nothing
to do with it.
Am I sick?
Nobody
understands me
that knows me;
I have to
censor my
thoughts
even
because my face
betrays them.
My best friends
are
dead
authors.
“Hello?”
“Can you
hear me?”
Darkling I listen 