The psych on duty in triage
asks me if I want to die, and I say,
Not at the moment, no, but stay
tuned. I can charm my way out
of anything—including his seven-day
suggested stay, those ugly
gray mornings buzzing in infrasound.
I can save my own life just as easily
as I can pervert compounds of
ripe silence with just a mouth—
drown it out of its own sound.
This is what makes me perfectly
compatible with death,
me and my ability to finesse
choice out of desire, the talented
tenth of disassociation, the power
of being just a body within a body
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