A trigger word in my ear,
key to my ragged ignition,
which when turned
will get my mind racing.

Some visions I’d forgotten
of how I made failure a faith
and disaster its daily sacrament.

Then, a small gun, just big enough
to set a bullet rattling
in my noggin;
a razor blade for picking
my locked arm;
a proper portion of proper pills;
a well-hung noose;
a cliff, ledge, or bridge.

Just give me what I ask for,
if you please.  
I’m being polite,
after all.

Well, you say, none of that
will make you happy;
it will make you angry or sad
or dead.

Eh, you choose
your pick me ups
and I’ll choose mine.

It’s not like you can skip
happy, angry, sad, or dead;
it’s not like any are avoidable.

For me it all comes down to pace
after a while — how quickly
you embrace the inevitable,
how much you value control
of your own timing.  

Me, I’ve got a thing
for punctuality.

I get a rise
out of being early
for important events,
no matter how much pain
they eventually bring,

or how much
I dread them.

Once invaded, 
a home becomes
a broken promise.

Once breached, 
walls and doors become
dark, porous lies
and windows turn into
lesions to be healed.

Maybe
whoever did this
needed the money.
Maybe
whoever did this
needed it more 
than I did — 

but all my voices urge me 
to soften my caring,
harden my heart,
put aside 
anything within 
that’s akin 
to compassion,
join the rest of us
in suspicion and fear
of what’s outside — saying

all the things I hate to hear.

It will take a long time
before I can ignore them enough
to be me again.