I’ve walked through graveyards in the broad daylight,
Not to feel like I’m alive,
But to search for a place to die.
I want to know what section of the cemetery I’ll be buried in.
I’ve walked the grass between the headstones,
Reading the different names,
And in the far corner underneath a shade tree,
I used a shovel one night to dig out six feet
Of dirt which lies in a pile beside the rectangle hole.
I’ve knelt beside my plot and wondered if my casket
Would keep me warm after having left the cold earth.
The grass that surrounded my future home tickled my legs
As I prayed to a folded paper headstone that I held between my fingers.
Wrapped within the creases, rested my beloved razor blades
And written in the tear stained white space
Read the word, “depression.”

I threw the folded paper six feet under and stood up to refill the grave.