This Crisis Lives Here
These works, arrived at while penning a suicide note, aren’t just expressions but also acts of survival—ways of holding oneself together when everything feels like it’s falling apart.
I don’t want
to be fucked
I want to be
hurt like a living
thing. I tire of the
pain of silent exploitation
the slow death of a cog. The
uneasy disuse of another statistic.
I want to be maimed and tossed
away, bloody and recently desired.
I don’t want the hurt to be common
I don’t want it researchable, run of the
mill violence. I have already dried so
my soul needs to fall apart. It needs
to mean something before there is
nothing again. Beat me against the
coal before dragging me to hell.
Strip me of my sorrow before
searing me with the corrosive
insight of the end.
Save me a place in
your grace. Recognize
that I always try for
you, for us. That I
know. That you know.
That you loved me
before you killed me.
That this was a failed
attempt at having me
see life.
