Vaisakhi

Life, on the edge of split.
a breath becomes intermittent
in stint of passing trend,
a hand from the end of break
in acheing swell, a cut not bruising.
name and body I keep using to
abuse myself with; dying with
the thought of taking leash
to level next, submission to a
low extreme for tending tward
the nil. a bag of illness I
feel safe to keep as full as I can
carry, heavy to the shoulder
blades I bury deep in flesh,
coil to a perfection. round in
coarse and threaded noose,
tight upon the neck that uses
choke as an affective verb,
hands in beard as hands deserve
to cup of what keeps going. like
life on the edge of stiff,
twitch and wet with suicide spit:
end, and all that comes with it.
me, on the ledge of –

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