Sexuality is
Outer space.
Everything that
Belongs to
A hole.

Stars are
Burning now.

Every staircase’s
A language.
Every singular
Event is
A fiction.

Forget how
To write.

Orbits of
Your I’s.
It’s not
A metaphor
If one
Says so.

Abstraction is
As real
As oranges
Or meat—
It too
Has a
Shelf life.

Raise your
Hand if
You don’t
Think you
Are a
Satellite of
Love.

HAY(NA)KU SUICIDE NOTES

I
am so
over me. BANG.

*

Burn
this poem
and the body.