This Poem is not a Suicide Hotline but it's the Best i Could Do
I don't want this to be a careful poem.
Even the word absence takes on its own kind of shape,
like the way in which a ghost materializes in a room
you thought was previously abandoned.
I've seen too many people fall in love with sadness.
They consider it a tangible thing, an object they can hold
in their hands and marvel at
like a glass case full of dinosaur bones
in a museum.
I want this poem to shake those people up; I want it to throw
them against the wall and rip out their heart and stomp on it.
I want it to wake them up.
Sometimes if you touch a person you can burn holes in them
with only your fingers. That's the power of a flame.
Some matches
never go out.
Even the stars feel a certain kind of melancholy every once in awhile;
maybe they think about suicide
the way some trees wish they could hang themselves
from their own branches.
I want this poem to be dangerous. I want it to be
a wake-up call. If you're in love with sadness,
I hope it fucks you over and breaks your heart
so you never have to go back to it again.
Even empty rooms
have feelings.
Pick yourself up, brush yourself up,
and go on. Go on go on go on.
It's time.
