Sometimes I imagine myself not plummeting,
but falling slowly,
spiraling
uncontrolled into the black;
the nonentity is dizzying and cold like outer space,
unsympathetic.
I’m only a miscarriage of
wishes and wisdom,
ice frozen,
looking for a comet
to start my heart—ignite some
fucking passion.
My brain feels itchy,
like heavy wet wool.
I’m not crazy.
I just want to
lift
the
latch
attached to my skull.
Open the hatch.
Get rid of the blanket.
I hate the day you were born.
The absence of you crushes me.
© 2019 Kindra M. Austin