Kissing the things that I love goodbye—
Imagining if it all could get better—
Laughing at my own wounds, fighting the urge to cry,
Looking past my own as I carve my gory letter,
Jotting down how this is a bitter way to die,
Observing the trauma, forgetting it later under a sweater,
Yanking down the selves to hide who’s the killjoy.
