it's survival if there's still a mouth to speak of 
the cataclysm. these days i am so keen on laughter
i try to disremember all the scars i have earned so far 
or the bruises that waylay my soft heart. every martyr
has some homage to pay at the threshold of agony, 
and perhaps this depression is my small sacrifice. 
the music from the stereo spills all over the county
of my bones like a moonlight—serenading. 
i am fluid. i change like an hour on a clock. 
here i green euphoria. there i cascade into a pool 
of saltwater. is it ADHD? 'cause i overthink a lot: 
a crash into the sands heralds an impending catastrophe 
other than just a mere fall meant to be dusted off. 
some night ago i was embattled with a runny nose
& headache, wondering if the body now at its farthest
stretch—seeking [insert]. my mind panted through 
a variety of possibilities except living. until i woke the
next day, but with discomfort the size of lament.
the pain is so much it undid the weight of my existence. 
i think more now of how i can unbury the boy inside 
me from all these lucent aches. & so Hope loiters about
the corridors—his limbs broken, but body stable enough
to unthink suicide. i do not trust the blade for its faux mercy;
i am just so capable of surviving its cuts.