I feel like I’ve said all I’ve been made to be said.
I’ve expressed my limited array of emotions,
In a variety of ways.
And yet…
It doesn’t feel over,
Not quite yet.
I don’t believe in anything, not even men.
But maybe I can make something,
Something.
Something that someday when I’m dead,
You’ll still care about.
That when you feel something terrible or wonderful,
You can come back to one of my poems and see it in a new light.
You can understand and love, and cry, and die with me.

I want you to care.
Because I can’t.
Now there, I’m done I’ve said it.
Now on to years of psychological questioning’