this is not a confession

 

you could kill yourself with a light bulb,
an extension cord

you could chew your arm off
like an animal,

wide-eyed,
trapped

write a poem about it,
win an award

you speak to the wall
and sometimes it answers

sometimes it’s the most beautiful thing
you’ve heard in years

people walk through the room,
disappear

you don’t say hello and
you’re antisocial,

which is another word for scared.
you turn up the music

write more slowly, think more slowly,
but the pages continue to fill

you try to remember the smell of rain
on hot pavement

the background is too loud,
your hands hurt, your face hurts and

you realize you’ve been
screaming for days

you keep your head down, but
they still keep noticing you

you forget what the night tastes like,
but still understand the way bones attach to muscles

imagine reading these words
years from now