Here’s a poem I wrote back in September 2019, and kept as a draft since. I’m not sure what mood was striking me at the time, but I prefer not to try to polish it too much, particularly given the title/subject. Might as well leave it as is.
The drawstrings of the kitchen bag
became the makeshift noose of my
Didn’t even bother to use a clean one,
with the fragrance of rose or lemon,
as if the grass was indeed greener
on the other side instead of a burnt brown.
The bag’s insides contained sloppy joe mucus, and
coffee grounds, and the putrid smell of spoiled
Didn’t bother to get dressed that day,
or shower, or shave, deodorant was stale,
as if I needed to enter the other side
fresh, coffin-ready, and obituary-pretty.
The bag lowered over my head; my own hands
seeming like somebody else’s, but this was my
Drawstrings pulled, air coming into my lungs,
as I suck on the banana peel, and the burnt
toast, I choke, causing the air to tighten
around me even more.
legs give way to linoleum.
And the madman and man,
both made of matter,
less and less.