Poetry

Sunday Despair

what does it mean when i, i frequently think “i want to die,” to where have these thoughts descended, or have they climbed, for things to be ended in such undue time, fucking kill me, he whispers to himself as he checks another dating site, and stretches his wings for the final flight.

for it’s time to go. vast silence and nomenclatural violence hast turned me into an observer of myself. i place my body on the shelf and walk three steps back. a view to a kill, but i’m not that active – a view to a slow death, more like, like the elongation of time when that guy ran into me with his brakeless bike on the fourth of july when I was nine. i think i had scrapes all along my back. i don’t think i was thrown, but what is known in the midst of immense degradation and embarrassment?

i’m sure that guy felt like utter shit for the rest of the night. i feel sorry for him now. he didn’t fix his bike and he hurt a kid. sorrow piles upon unending sorrow.

on the morrow, my sad wings will have melted. the wax that holds them, i mean. i shall fall into the churning pit of the workday. threshing teeth and maniacal demon laughter will cut me, hot breath smelling like old cash and cigarettes badly hidden by gum or mints.

i don’t have the will to climb to the top shelf, but i have to get there. for these wings must try. to throw me as high as they can, to be blessed or damned.

for it’s time to go.

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