Puppies born.
Pots and pans and dishes scrubbed.
Books and clothes are crammed into a travel bag.
Hours speed past beside the bus window.

Puppy died.
Books and films are consumed but not digested.
Wrists and lungs clean for a full two weeks.
Days pass by without a sound.


54. Come, Sleep

Come, sleep
and drown me
in your embrace of temporary
death; your sea is what I long
to feel against my chest,
& not these roiling waves
of suffocating sheets
that offer heat
but not warmth—
I’d rather freeze—,
& not these pillows
around my head
like buzzing flies,
imitating my heartbeat,
another liar I do not need.

Come, sleep,
engulf me;
& never let me back up.

47. Of Flower Girls & Suicide

a ribbon & a blade
in the same pocket
of intent.

intent screams
out through
your back pocket,
but dare you
sit on it? dare you
ignore the cries
of the silk white ribbon
& the rusty blade,
wailing to be tied
around your wrist &
break skin?
soak the thread
& eat the blade?


the seam of your undershirt,
stretched straight across the valley’s crest
of your back, creasing through
the fabric of your shabby purple
sweater, highlighted by shadows cast
upon your form by the languid yellow
of the streetlights lining the street at
six in the evening, when everything
is blue & black, & dumb gray
is the atmosphere, ringing with the
revving of the cars passing us by
in streaks of red & blindness,
blurring past us, to the rhythm of
the rise & fall of your shoulders &
the sway of your hips, perfectly in
view as you walk ahead, unaware
of my stare, boring deep into the
dip of your spine’s abyss, thinly sheathed
by the taut stretch of your undershirt
draped over by your flimsy sweater,
mauve in the dim light, & through the haze
of gray escaping my lips, forming a wall
gossamer-thin before my face, streaming
in between my vision & your form, your
image of purple, mauve, silent, in the
blue & yellow, of black-brown bob hair
glinting in the sharp pierce of the dull
fireflies overhead, dead, undancing,
fixed atop their posts as beacons,
but jaded, faded, & damp,
like the purple of your sweater.

55. I Cut Myself

(I was bored I
couldn’t feel things I
started to cut myself last night)

Red razor blade streaks criss-cross
on the terrain of my wrist;
like the grooves in my skin,
magnified and coloured.

Drops of blood formed
in the paper-thin slits
not like geysers, or rivers,
but mountains of bright crimson.

(The sight is interesting the
pain is exhilarating the
fear is mind-numbing)

This morning,
the bleeding lips
sealed themselves.

(And tonight, I will do it again.)


I’ll wait until October
to erase your ghost.
August is dying,
but September
is forever,
& merciless.

I’ll wait until October
to erase your ghost.
November will then be
a time of peace
& happiness.

51. Bleeding Gums

my mouth
you go

feeling every inch of my warm heat
with your inanimate cold
with a streak of burning mint
and brutally
like a finger made of plastic

scrubbing my teeth,
scraping my tongue,
sliding against my hollowed-out cheeks

and my gums begin to bleed
and the mint is stained with blood
and the white has become pink
and it burns
it burns

but I guide you.