All great creative storytellers know,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells,
The time machine was built so long ago

Expression chassis, tonal power cells,
The primary engine, sending us with word,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells

The second engine, flashback, and a third
—portend, exhausts each piston-fired clue,
The primary engine, sending us with word

The epoch steering, future or review,
Remember back, or forward fantasy
Portend exhausts each piston-fired clue

Captain Imagine, Wingman Memory,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,
Remember back, or forward fantasy

Like Atwood, Pratchett, Liu, and Philip K,
All great creative storytellers know,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,  
The time machine was built so long ago

I never understood how someone could drink

How someone could throw away their life for a single sip of whiskey

How they consumed what they knew could **** them

But then I'd lay in bed for hours on end

And those hours became days

Days became months

Months became years

A never-ending cycle of torment

And some way

Somehow  

I understood

I grew up believing that making myself small
was the key to fixing my broken family.

I broke my bones and cut off my limbs
So I could squeeze inside their box.
I made myself into something I never was,
Manageable, bite-sized pieces.
I made myself easy to digest.

If I was able to be less of myself,
I would make others whole.

I believe I was the key to a mangled, unfixable lock.
And all I had were bruised knuckles
And black eyes
And a butchered body lacking love.

I didn’t do the dishes today
Instead I played video games
And ordered takeout again
There are gnats in the kitchen
And I didn’t want to go in there

I didn’t make myself coffee today
Instead I stayed in my bed
And watched a show that I love
I didn’t want to go in there
There are gnats in the kitchen

I didn’t do the laundry today
Instead I wore the same clothes again
And the walls ate me alive
There are gnats in the kitchen
And I didn’t want to go in there

I didn’t take out the trash today
Instead I stared at my phone
And rotted with the takeout from yesterday
I didn’t want to go in there
There are gnats in the kitchen

I didn’t go outside today
Instead I let the blankets swallow me
And every day I’m more confined
There are gnats in the kitchen
And I don’t want to go in there

When it’s my turn to be reaped
- as I know it someday will be
- let my final, earthly verse be poetry.
Let the vast heavens weep,
may my wake not be cheap,
and peace be upon my coterie.