you pour your soul into a bottle, siphon away your last redeeming qualities
and think, perhaps if i write a poem, i can save myself
perhaps if you wrote a poem, you would condemn somebody else.

you squint into the vial, notice the curlicues of ash
and that's weird, because you haven't burned anything recently
nothing except yourself

i thought about donning that visage, of veiling myself in black
i thought about a lot of things
of bruises on perfectly smooth arms
of the silver sheen of a sharp edge
of trying out ceramics and seeing if they're all that great

i remembered what you're supposed to do
or what everyone says you're supposed to do.
lay out your belongings in an orderly fashion
leave a note
what would i say? no one would take the time to read it
no one ever has

maybe this is the note
the note they'll never find
the note even i don't understand

all i wanted to do was talk to you
just talk
just to hear your voice, just to exchange a few words
and i don't know how this happened
i'm lost
and they ******* **** at making maps

and i am jimmi simpson all over again, dying not one not two not even three times
the younger generation of being possessed, of putting your points
in unexpected places
of being utterly unliked and useless

what's wrong with me?
things i don't even feel but i always lead it the same way
i always **** it up
i always do, every time, without fail
i'm no good to anybody, and least of all myself
and the only reason i'm still alive is because i keep thinking
that maybe just ******* maybe someone cares
because i keep thinking but what if
well **** the what ifs

no, the only ******* reason i'm still here is because i'm too much of a ******* coward to **** myself.