Blue water laps at blue tile.
blue depths beckon.
I will float in the starry silence
and play Ophelia one last time;
a sacrifice to the playwright.

Jumbled, run-on, fragment…
thoughts are like ill-written sentences.
I drop my shirt, choose another
curl into the linen closet
cry.


Stop the thoughts
I don’t want to know.
Seek the white noise
surround myself in sterility.

In the blue blue water
no agony of the soul exists,
no god-thrown insult as exquisitely painful
as what flies in and out of my mind

on the wings of a crow.