I think there will just be a point where something inside
me will slip and everything that I worried about will
come true and, like a discarded sandwich wrapper, my
tinfoil torso will crumple, my paddle pop ribs, snapping,
will pierce my limping heart then, if not dead, crippled, I
will let out one last fluttery sigh from my cardiac-
cavitied chest that as the air escapes sounds not unlike
a deflating balloon and which, floating in the thin night,
the neighbours might have heard, if only rather than
after, it had happened just a tiny little moment before
the collapse, and if I wasn’t already fainting at the sight
of my blood on the wind I might quite like to have two
seconds of peace to be disappointed by everything I
missed out on but I don’t, so lying there, alone,
just like that
I’m gone