be honest with me.
it has to hurt a little,
right? it always does.

but when it does hurt,
slow down and say it with me:
things will get better.

i wonder if it’d be cold against my neck
or if it’d be hot, or if i’d have to heat it just to be sure.
i wonder if it’d be as comfortable as sleeping,
but nothing’s as comfortable as sleeping:
as dreaming, as breathing, as thinking of being—
as being nonliving and no longer breathing.
so i doubt i’ll ever hang myself because to be fair,
the dead can breathe no air.

i'm getting a bit antsy in my skin:
a bit too tired, a bit too thin
and perhaps right now a bit like sin,
a bit like an unplayed violin.
i chalked it up to the unsettling din
but maybe it's something inside me, within—
something beside me, a has-been,
something to fight me again.
it's coming back, coming now,
and it thinks—i think—it'll win.

if only i weren't so lonely—
then i'd have something to do with my life.

sometimes i cover my ears
even when there’s no sound.
it blocks out the noise,
it blocks out the crowd.
it blocks out the voices
that are getting too loud.
it blocks out the crying
but my fingers are cold;
i’m drowning inside,
it’s too much, i’m strangled.

played an f sharp when i
should have played an f natural,
and i never heard it, i never
knew it—i played that note
over and over again, one
too many times to begin with.
it was half a step out of line:
half a step off design
half a step, it’s half
just half a step.
and still no one heard it.