I think staring past the window sears holes in my stomach
but maybe my stomach lurches because of the lingering taste of pills
on my tongue
I think pills
are just a legal way for my doctor to prescribe me
poison
it is poison
to think about the fact that
my father exchanges phone calls for a living
I am living on
scribblings attached to Post-It notes attached to my written
apologies
some Quote-of-the-Day website
(when did I start subscribing to those?)
told me that
apologies
are not meant to be told
invisibly
I always wanted to be invisible
like Violet from The Incredibles
it would be incredible if
I actually cleaned these dirty lenses
(and maybe even
the blades to my ceiling fan)
not many people know that
I’m not a fan of
white meat
I’d like to meet
someone who knows what I mean
I mean that 
death taps on my window every night
last night he
ticked against the pane
the pain is almost like how it was
yesterday
yesterday was my birthday
“Happy Birthday”
cards sit on my desk from
uncles in Saudi Arabia and
family members who stole words from other
mouths
there must be other
ways to hurt myself
other than throwing myself down the stairs
downstairs our fridge imprisons a candle-impaled cake
I’d rather cake
my lungs in tar to prove a point to the ones
who couldn’t care less
there are less words these days that are
unopened and
unread
I tried to
unread what I wrote but it’s already over
I told myself I’m over
the fear but I’m still afraid
I admit that
to this day
I am still
afraid
to
open
my window