i don't really feel like fighting.

in which the starving artist makes a to-do list.

dry swallow six pills in front of your cracked mirror

          (recipe for disaster if you ask me)

reach down your throat

drag hope out screaming by her ankles

          (call her unwitting achilles)

don't mix metaphors

          swallow her again.

miss the train by a mile, and

trace the path of a raindrop

          elbow to wrist

wonder why your blood is bluer, but

          wearily (this isn't that kind of story)

start running instead

get new boots

get a job

get a grip

check in on the mirror

(still cracked)

          laugh

collage with your own unwanted body parts

          sinew and selfhood you were taught to sell

          cheap

tack it up on the wall

                       put the pins right through your palms

this isn't that kind of story, either.

people ask you about your choices.

you break your own nose just to prove you bleed

(and you bleed)

                        and you bleed.