here are my little daily deaths:
a careful cut on the wrist,
cigarette burn marks and
scraped knuckles,
leaving messages unread,
losing and forgetting
the importance of things,
the look in my mother’s eyes
right before i start to tear
this body apart
as if it’s some
worn down structure
too shaky to house
anything other than good intentions
(these are careful, practiced things)

the only way to stay present
is to stay up late for sins
i know i’ll regret in the morning
so i practice shrinking to radio static;
fade into the white noise
of school year loneliness.
i practice keeping still,
holding my breath
for hours at a time
before eventually,
still crackling,
i settle back into my skin