twenty four and your reward is
a tube down your throat, feeding you
trying to keep your weight double your age
You cry. Your hair’s on the mattress. Pillows.
You cry. Lie to the left. It will hurt less.
My sweet child, and hands strapped to soft coffin
beautiful mind trapped in another world.
It is going to be years until you
find your art again, live your life again
rejecting all applicants because you
can no longer provide security
and how could you when you’re not secure ‘nough
heavy ‘nough, hurting everyone around.
You lie in the rooftop, crying, thinking
about dead drop, wishing you were dying
calculating how your brain will splatter.
Not high enough. “I need storeys, meters.”
Your love is lazy. Can’t
even keep tidy. Wily.
I am room disheveled.