“Please, please, I’m
begging you—
don’t do it at 3 am,
when
I'm sleeping, but rather at
high noon, in a
public square,
so that everyone can
see a
thousand rosy
rivulets run
like waterfalls away
from
my innards. A
sawed-off
shotgun, please, fed
to me
like cornbread, what
I know
is really best, no
need for
a spoon, just shove
it in.
Then, when my brain
dots
& streaks
several unready
awnings, the knife,
have it
be long, terrible as
angels
dancing & as merciless,
plunge it, deeper,
deeper,
so that I feel my
aorta
being severed,
really feel
it, how shockingly
irrevocable,
just like that, so
that literal
nothingness becomes my
only reality, which
it already
is, which is why I’m
begging
you, please,
please.”