a week has passed
and I am so sure of the
  uncertainty.
A boy    desperate   and me
hopeless,    Plan B.
In more than one way,
I have lost myself
so many times.
She tells me I am not the same
person, that I am withering,
disappearing.
I do not disagree, only tell her
that I am   trying.

Stinkbug, caught in a shriveled
spider's web.
Stinkbug falls, saves itself.

Only it knows how this could have
ended.
Only I know how this shouldn't
end, how it shouldn't
even be the way it is, in the
first place.
The habit of sleeping five hours past my alarm,
the dull roar of my dreams.

You have not tried to save me;
I am not asking you to.

I say it is up to me.
How everything is up to me,
my willingness to stay entrapped,
     engrossed in the web of something
within me, beyond me.

If I am the stinkbug, it is time. If I am the
stinkbug,
it is time.