I am every pain pill.
Every milligram of Zoloft
I’ve ever swallowed
mixed with each ounce of vodka
I ever drank.
I am my mouth on yours,
I am the ink of our lips,
me writing upon you,
“I hate myself,
I hate myself,
I hate myself,
I am alone,”
and you sending letters back
saying,
“Don’t make me look at you.”
I am here for the
purpose of presence
and nothing else.
I am ethnocentrism
but the only facet of my culture
is self-destruction.
I am not alive
but only whispering wind,
all too often
creating tornadoes
to remind myself of transience.
I do not deserve happiness.
I deserve metal separating my skin
and my hands down my throat,
clamoring for the button
that means, “Be okay!”
I am not “okay.”
I am thorns on ribs
and every time I swallow
I am pushing the sharpest edges
even deeper into
my internal organs.