on a late
late
January morning
I drew
myself
a bath

I drew the blades
across my wrists
and let the water
flow

extensions of
my life that creep
like billowing smoke
in air

the water was cold
against my warm blood
and the water grew dark
as well as my mind

I let it drain
into the sea
then sent the world
right down the drain

and now
I’m siting in
this bathtub
with my clothes soaked
and my wrists dried out

and so I
spit my blood
against the walls
and lick up all
the pain

and then I walk into the kitchen
and I drink a glass of rum
and then I think upon the healing chest
and swallow a bottle of pills
and churn the two
within my gut
and hope that I will die.