“Please, please, I’m
begging you— don’t do it at 3 am,
when
I'm sleeping, but rather at high noon, in a
public square, so that everyone can
see a thousand rosy
rivulets run like waterfalls away
from my innards. A
sawed-off shotgun, please, fed
to me like cornbread, what
I know is really best, no
need for a spoon, just shove
it in. Then, when my brain
dots & streaks
several unready awnings, the knife,
have it be long, terrible as
angels dancing & as merciless, plunge it, deeper,
deeper, so that I feel my
aorta being severed,
really feel it, how shockingly
irrevocable, just like that, so
that literal nothingness becomes my only reality, which
it already is, which is why I’m
begging you, please,
please.”
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