I dissolve like lemon hard candies

and the coiled up edges

of midnight on Thursday.

I squirm in crinkled wrappers.

I suffocate in the spiral of my own

razor wrists.

I said I could stop writing

sad poems but people

like my sad poems

because they some from

somewhere in between my lips and the cold air

that bites my teeth

in January.

Because everyone likes the

taste of blood

because we don’t look away from

car accidents

because poetry is a cheap therapist

because poetry doesn’t ask me if

I’m still thinking about quiet

ways I could die on a Thursday

night.

Poetry doesn’t prescribe me

medication.

Poetry would understand

why I burn my wrists

like wicks.

Poetry knows

I’m not special but

something in my pen is sewing me

to the collective suffering

of so many other victims

of humanity. Something

about Thursdays always

feels like a precipice.

Tonight I’ll sleep

on the calm edge and wrap

myself in words until

my breath is slow

and warm.