it feels like wallpaper inside my chest is peeling off &
it hurts, i won’t lie to you.
i did it to myself, i’ll gladly victim blame so you won’t have to.
it’s a car accident but we’ll call it a suicide.
that’s how i want it to be.
that’s the word—
you could say “afraid” but my father calls me impatient
like my mother calls me moody.
i’m too “afraid” to wait,
i walk away and that wallpaper comes peeling at
a terminal velocity.
i wonder if the taffy hurts
to be stretched apart like that—
i suppose we’d tell them they did it to themselves.
i don’t know why my heart jumped into my throat the other day;
more of my impatience, the walking away, the taffy, the hurt.
how does it end? the question.
wouldn’t i like to know so i could jump straight to it.
for now, i better go the the improvement store,
get some blue tape.
but, that blue tape, it’s not very sticky.