--I GET THOSE GOOSEBUMPS EVERY TIME

This Is My Depression Talking Again

Like sometimes I start here

in the middle of my missteps.

I turn little boy choosing black

choosing more black

instead of grown man

choosing happy teeth,

choosing do not sag,

choosing remember life,

saying warped tree over there,

come hug me and I will be sure

to hug you back.

Like sometimes midnight eats itself,

dawn turns bulimic,

and I see, feel think—

black belt tightening around neck not waist,

bed of blades hissing Lay here.

 Sleep. Bleed. Sleep.

a hundred severed fingers tap-dancing

in my skull as I walk

the shaky tightrope where

loneliness brushes up against lunacy.

And finally

like sometimes

every wrong,

every reason,

every answer

tastes caustic and chalky,

like chaff, dead moths,

dead moms,

dead anything

stuck to the roof of my mouth,

earwigs in throat,

no way to say Help,

no way to lift or reach

as the moon unpacks

a pistol meant to make

the scarecrow dance

and flop

and die

once and for all.