every poem i've ever written is a metaphor 
for whatever you'd like to diagnose me with

i've been trying to monetize 
my sense of dread which 
doesn't look nice on anyone.
by that i mean, 
this is a *mental illness* poem
as rachel & i would say. when was
the last time you measured 
the weight of your organs 
against the weight of an angel 
on the scales of justice?
there is no such thing
just a forked-tongue
& a wheel of guilt circling 
back to you. once, i built 
a house of fire & slept inside.
now, i am the house of fire.
my organs are made of fearful longing.
by brother is an airplane 
blinking "goodbye." all my skin
is prickling with a fresh rash--
purple & blue & gold. paint a nice
picture of me, uncle. frame it
& hang it in the coat room.
when you are falling
from a mirror who breaks first
your reflection or your teeth?
this is a long spelling bee
& you have no idea what word 
they're asking about.
my heart is a bag of plums.
a bruised bruise. when will
we really get to know
the ceiling & all its contours?
walk backwards towards 
the skylight. ache the sliver 
of july left in each iris.
who is going to bleach this tongue?
my friend tells me 
a corpse takes at least
eight year to be just clean bones.
every poem i've ever written is a metaphor
for whatever you'd like
to diagnose me with.
i had an extra finger once
but i traded it
for a front porch. would you like
a tablespoon of midnight?
i prefer not to share my own.