hello there, victim of the boundless urge
to pull some cursed, dumb-bitch shit—
i’m your conscience and i’m ready
to take you for a ride through every way
in which you are far too much, then
every way you are not enough. you might
say wait, both? in tandem? and i’d chuckle
or maybe cackle, because of course,
my dear, the way all your old lovers see it,
you fail in both directions. when it
happens—when i emerge from my latent
home, nestled deep in your torso—well,
someone online said it like this: people really
think i’m joking when i say my emotions get so
intense that i believe the only way out is to kill myself;
it landed. i am the fingers on your knobs,
twisting back and forth with reckless
abandon, semblance of control glitching
out. when your senses return, you will
survey the wreckage, beg your loved ones
to remember who you are when i go
to sleep—deceptively docile, considering—
and the fire inside your ribcage has died again.