poem: i broke the skin but it didn’t hurt (everything is a disappointment)

she was in her room and
the moon was hung capriciously outside
and she was sitting on the heater,
her legs curled inside
herself; she was crying and
she wanted to pull her veins out
of her too-thin wrists and
eat them,
letting the wires tangle
in her throat—like her emotions used
to tangle in her lower body, when she was
in middle school and still convinced
she was a sociopath—she could turn
herself off like a lightswitch—
she is crying and she cannot
stop—suicide is something easy, casual;
it is on a to-do list; it is playing
cowards with yourself: you are the idiot,
standing on the train tracks,
the wind shrieking shrieking shrieking
and god hurling iron and fire—in the form
of progress—coming at you,
at you, at you, at you.
the longer you stay, the longer
you wait—the better
your art comes out, the higher your chance
of being smashed of falling
asleep and not (thank God)
waking up.