i don’t want to talk about it.
i don’t want to talk about how for three years
my morning routine  has been prozac and just enough coffee
to disguise the fact that i haven’t
slept in four days.

i don’t want to talk about how
the boy with the subaru coated in grateful dead stickers
loved me and how i ran because of this.

nor about how my birthday is in
19 days
and i still want to die.
another year come and gone.

i am a stranger in my own body.
maps written in a foreign language.
my ship has sailed,
my breed extinct.
going
going
going
gone.