on rainy days in the cold sitting in a gas station parking lot as the wipers sway back and forth a hypnotic rhythm that explains exactly why poets walk into the ocean with rocks in the pockets and tears in their eyes

there is an unbearable heaviness when you strip the masks off to spread actual emotion onto the page sharp enough to cut the reader and make them suffer with you because it is fucking real this intimacy of shared anguish

but the prose ends then the reader finds the next distraction while all i have is a parking lot with a wadded up sanitary napkin wrapper and throat hoarse from screaming into the goddamned nothingness wrapped around my chest

it isn’t noble when a poet commits suicide, it is a much deserved break