He says it,
she says it:
“if I die…”

As if 
it might not happen.
As if
an individual
could change
the definition
of a life:

that it inevitably
begins, 
progresses,
and ends.  That

it is not 
static.  That
we can see
a closure,
that no matter how blind
we can see

a closure.

“If I die…” There’s
failed magic
in those words.
Fingers crossed,
then broken.
A rabbit foot
that dances away.
A hope that something

blasphemous
will happen.
 

Stop calling it therapy.
I’ve written thousands of lines
and I’m as broken now
as when I started,
maybe more so.

Stop calling therapy
what exists
to spite disorder,
what persists after
breakdowns and
attempts.

Stop calling therapy
what I would do more of
if I were less a mess.
Stop calling therapy
what I call
breathing.
Stop calling therapy
what I call
myself spread out.

Stop calling
triggers on guns
material.  Stop calling
triggers on others’ lips
material. Stop calling
too-blunt knives and weak pills
and slender ropes
and bed restraints
and hours
of paying to talk
around agony

the dark timber of my art.

Stop calling.  Stop
insisting, stop speaking
of therapy.  Stop in fact
your fantasy of why
and what and how
and spout as pressure valve
and verse as surgery.

If it worked,
if it was as you say,
I’d be perfect.