Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.