march twenty-first and twenty-second time

during suicide, the body tries
to escape. crumbles out little
tangible bits of self like fairytale
trails: blood, tissue, and bile. the body leaves
the soft taupe waiting room of the skin
when the doctor--the pulsing filter of the heart
like the routine scrawl of paperwork--
finally diagnoses,

stands, waltzes

out.

he is the problem; he is the disease.