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the patterns in my life criss-
cross and tangle and wrap themselves up
in great, terrible calamity before
falling upon the floor in a jumbled mess
waiting for me to trip up on them
again, careening towards the wall
where i smash my head against the fireplace
and crumple into a heap of wasted
potential.  and these are the same
whose whispers at night
haunt the very fabric of my dreams,
lining the linen of my mind
with these tiny thoughts that maybe
i never really did have a chance and this
is playing out the way it’s supposed to:
hallucinogenic and suicidal.
for i was given the fires of Prometheus
and i chose to put them out, douse them in alcohol
and stamp on my grave until my foot gave
way and i stumbled into the nearest ditch,
a tired, broken old fool.
and then an armada approaches.
i can hear the ground rumbling as the panic attacks me
for a third time this week
as i smash every ligament against
every solid surface until
either my body breaks or my soul finally retires,
but the latter is too graceful
for a plebeian such as myself.
no, I am set for the fate of mangled corpses
dressed in sickening polka-dot patterns
as my life is doomed to repeat itself
in such the catastrophic way until i finally say enough
and free myself, be it the gallows or the gun.
the blade, or the pen to write myself
into a box, to tie my cement shoes and cast myself
into the river ankh. only to
realize that i’ve been alone and honestly, i used to perfer the company
before i showed up and ruined things
with all of this talk about dying.

– r.f.g.


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