You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.

Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going

Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.

But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.