the desk bolted into the ground
the chair equally bolted
your head smashed into it
hanging there, bleeding
a rotting orange in that room you went to every morning.
your skin against skin against skin
the resting body
your father after the sixth time you tried to off yourself and woke up in the same place you’ve always been
the white crinkled scars from your nervous tick
the same tick your father had that made him scratch that brown spot atop his bald head.
you going silent after the ****
him going off to tell his boys after
the moment frozen in time
my headaches
the will to live matched with the want to die.