I want to write
a poem
so here I am
doing it
even though
I have nothing
to write about
My head's
a bit fuzzy
I woke up
around 4 pm.

My girl wants to
read me a poem
she thinks I'll
like it.
"Not now, I'm writing."
"Ok."
and as the world
burns to ashes
outside
losing weight
becomes
just as realistic
as going outside
and running
without someone
chasing me with a knife.

I tap my belly
twice.
I've decided—
I'll keep Steven.
He's a good boy
who has tantrums
but a couple
farts here and there
usually settle him.

My joints and my ***
hurt when I get up
I'm getting too heavy
for my knees
and the chairs
aren't comfortable
enough.

This poem has
an thing to it
I don't know what
it feels good
and right
it feels like Steven.

I can hear
my father arguing
with my little sister
over homework
and that doesn't.

There is
a pressure plate
pressing on my head
and I can hear
my skull crack
the more they argue
but it never
pops it
it just presses
and presses
never landing
the killing blow.

the homework
questions begin
"Is freedom
good or bad?"
"Good."
"is censorship's
something
present in
dictatorship
or democracy?"
"I don't know
what censorship is."
I get up
from my bed
my joints
don't hurt
I grab the door ****
and shut my
bedroom door.

There's your answer.