slain

It was winter and a
cigarette found itself in
my mouth. Smoke gathered in
my lungs and I thought of lunging
into the frozen lake. He put up a stake
and said, "this is worth it, we'll be
able to afford a new head." a bed for
your brain, a way to be slain, take
my thoughts from me and make them
into something better.

what if this was the way for things
to be done? wars to be won? this brain
has taken in all it can, now let it make
its way to the can; we'll trot down to the
grocery store and replace it. reduce the bass in it.
i'm tired of this pounding, this constant grounding,
past the grass and into the bloody soil. wrap my
body in foil. i've attempted to slay myself before,
but instead just got my foot in the door for
mental illness treatment, and small
steps closer to something they
like to call "recovery."

(your thoughts are your disease,
and when you sneeze, it's a devil
up there, censoring out the worst thing you've
said all day.)

recovery, a discovery
of something that's been there all along.
they're doctors, and when you got stuck
in your mother's birth canal, they got out tongs
and thought of their favorite songs as they
yanked you out, like a black olive
they refused to eat.
isn't that sweet?