Suicide Is, After All, The Opposite Of

Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died Full Of Questions

My Heart Is On A Budget. It Keeps Me On The Brink.

With This Pen I Take In Hand My Selves And With These Dead Disciples I Will Grapple. Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

It Was As If A Morning-glory Had Bloomed In Her Throat, And All That Blue And Small Pollen Ate Into My Heart, Violent And Religious

[i] Have Fantasies Of Killing Myself And Thus Being The Powerful One Not The Powerless One.