Yesterday was one of those days: blue,
cold, regrettable through
and through, and I wanted 
to die.

The day before too: it smelled
awful and left a stain. There were
arguments and I wanted
to die.

Today’s better.  The sun
was high and I worked hard and well.
The wind didn’t hurt my face.
I wanted to die.

You think it’s ridiculous.
You think it means nothing,
that up and down living is normal.
For me, so is wanting to die.

Every day it comes to mind:
I want to die.  Every day good or bad
it comes to mind at some point,
unbidden, unbound to circumstance:

I want to die, I want to die, I want
to die.  I don’t; I keep living though
I want to die. It’s abstract and unreal
until it lands and digs claws in: 

I want to die.  Let me not admit
to the stumbling of my tongue as I say it — 
I am not stumbling with it, I am saying it clean
knowing it will discomfort you, knowing

you will not understand how it is, that I want
what I want and will nonetheless not bend to taking it
regardless of how strong the wanting becomes,
but I will not lie: every day I am struck by this urge

to die.  It keeps me limber, it keeps me 
on my toes, it makes me yearn and seek
a smile whenever it rises within, I have learned
to hold it off and push it aside and live — 

but sometimes,
sometimes, you know,
I am so,
so tired.

A world full of 

sovereign animals
so tired of us
using them,

so tired of us
making them into symbols,
giving them our emotions,
making them into
shadow humans. They’re
so tired of us. Hell,
I’m

so tired of us,

tired of not being
my own sovereign animal,

so tired of the urge to paint
my meaning onto Others
without their permission.

I struggle with knowing
every avenue that begins within
and can be traveled
into the farthest distance
needs no hawk
soaring on ahead,
can be followed 
without my needing 
the soundtrack
of a lion’s heart.
I was so comfortable
on the mattress of metaphor
and now I have to wake up
and go alone,
companion-free,

into the freshly silent night.