Pluck Life.
You kill what you can:
lighting fires in the cups of flowers.
Drowning mice with a garden hose.
Aware of the carniverous gravel, eating my bare feet
Even as I'm pleading for it's life.
"Why? Why? Give me a reason. You're being irrational."
You're being sociopathic.
Like when you drove me down Leach Road in August
Even though it was killing me.
StopStopStop
"Look at the skid marks.
Stop being selfish.
Were they aware of the steady hum of movement in their bones?
Isn't this fascinating?"
It was the closest I ever came to hating you.
A lot like now,
with this tiny writhing life scrabbling against the gush.
It takes longer than I thought.
I plead for a minute.
Two.
I watch it drown, even as
I'm terrified of drowning-
The thought of water being inside and outside of you, sitting in the tunnel of your throat
Going nowhere.
The motionless way it would poise itself around you as if you were nothing there at all.
Turning people into buckets; Sunk
plastic with a hole to hold more water.
Although
I've always known
That all dying feels like drowning.
The only thing that creates the concept of air
is how we pull it in and out of ourselves.
Dying means the same air sitting inside and outside of you.
Life lingering in your throat,
yet being unable to pluck it in and out of yourself in great gasping pinchfuls.
I am angry and leaving-
"What did you expect me to do? What good is it? What does it matter? Look at me."
But I disappear like a cigarette.
Door creaking like a scream from a mouth opening.
And closing.
You're a jerk sometimes.