I've always wondered
what the last poem I'd write
would be about.
Perhaps something mundane,
a random encounter
with a stranger.
Or maybe the first
cigarette before dawn,
before the heat
and before the noise.
I try to stay present,
removing all temptations,
but exit plans are
everywhere.
It would take one second
to get behind the wheel
and leave everything
I knew behind.
Except, I can't leave
my mind.
I can't deafen it.
I can't bargain with it.
Each attempt to
understand it or
work with its chaos
leaves me crouched
on the floor,
unable to stomach
any more effort.
I know you hold
the space
for when I am most
vulnerable,
but I cannot keep
my head above water
when the weight of
the future holds me down.
I am a ghost
of who I used to be,
a hollowed out memory
that desires silence.
