The tip of two noses pressed like grilled cheese into sandwich and a cold is brewing in the summertime.
How many minutes per day do you think about death.
How long before your jump is gathered into the air toward pile of cigarette corpses not thick enough to cushion spinal cord.
Mondays are meant to deliberate, masturbate, hurl suicide notes against pillowcase, dyed red from wet hair traveling into cotton fibers.
What does it matter that she loved you once or that you won that award or that they clapped after your last poem or that you got that degree or that you survived childhood and that late night walk when that man tried to slice your face open or that you asked her to marry you and she said yes but now it is just a blur.