I don’t want this anymore;
what ‘this’ is, is hard to describe.

My hands have been shaking for weeks.
I’m scared, and I don’t understand.

If I cried out,
would it sound like a whimper
or more like a roar?

I feel scattered,
existing in multitudes across
plains of yellow grass,
busy sidewalks,
and quiet tree-tops.

I want something and nothing,
served only in teaspoons.

I think I’ve lost part of myself.
Have you seen my lungs?

They may have fallen out somewhere
down there, yeah, near those rocks.
Nothing there? Strange.

I am confused and hurt and
want nothing more than what I’ve had.
That’s what stings.

It feels like a hundred wasps
have entered my bloodstream
and are traveling straight for my heart.

How many wasps would it take?

A piece of tape on my computer
says ‘there is more to this story.’
I’m not so sure anymore.

Who gets to control that anyway?
Is it me? God? Other?

What was it that that one person said?
I’m sorry, so sorry.

What if my last letter to the world
was an autobiography?
My whole life, typed out in stanzas.
It would be long in oh-so many ways,
but also short. Bitter.

Each page would tell of
lies I thought were true,
truths that hurt too much for me to believe,
and everything else that fell in between.

One chapter, maybe,
would be sweeter,
like a grapefruit topped with sugar —
still bitter underneath,
but with a sweet exterior
enticing you to consume more.