exit

i used to write poetry

while sitting on the edge

of the sun. the burnt feeling i got

felt good... appropriate. felt like i needed

some cooked motivation. the death of my friend

wasn't enough. her suicide didn't take me where

i thought it would. instead, i retreated-

spiraled-

kept

dis

a

p

p

e

a

r

i

n

g

until

one day

i saw myself

again, disfigured

and trapped inside of

a broken bathroom mirror.

and now i look at myself the way

she did before doing herself in, and

i wonder how long i have before

i'm swallowing the same

bullshit that she did,

and dying while

crying myself

to sleep.