don’t let it happen. don’t become worse.
wait.
revise. edit the statement.
let it happen. become worse.
easy. i can do that.
maybe
this is razing something to build it back up. maybe
this is burning the manuscript
to write the novel.
a mantra for each day;
Monday: there is no magic and everyone must die,
Tuesday; eventually the furnace sputters and the house gets cold.
Wednesday; i can’t keep waiting for the holes in the drywall to fill,
or for the mold on the baseboards to be scrubbed clean.
Thursday: i have to do it myself.
Friday: all my problems stem from the way i think;
Saturday: get a therapist.
Sunday: therapy is bullshit.
why do i think i’m different? Why do i think my
narrative arch is more gilded than
everyone else’s?
what is latent, gradual, building,
like a hot wind sweeping across the grass?
what fires will catch?
what will fizzle out into ash?
why is there a
stranger in my bathroom?
why is he clutching his chest like
he’s having a heart attack?
look, man, i tell myself, if you’re not
going to kill yourself, you have to
do something. you can’t just wait around
for another ten years. you can’t just take a nap
in a car that’s plunging down,
you have to break the window
and swim out.
why not, i answer? why not sleep if i am tired? why
not shatter if i am broken? why hold myself up for
another decade?
because, my friend, this is the door and
you have the key in your hands. because this is the
window and you have the brick. just because
time is a puncture wound letting your blood, just
Because your bones are glued to the floor, just because
you left your mind out in the cold and you dog chained your
soul and you are empty, you still have the key and
there is still
a way out.
so what if it’s worse.
when i turn thirty
I am going
To find
A way out
