You’re such a mess.

Look at your feelings spilling all over the floor

Your heart clutched in your fist.    

It’s immature, all this blood and pain. 

And then the tears, loathsome.  It’s not death.  Not this. 

Have you tried the egg salad croissant?  That’s worse than death.

But death isn’t worse.  

Death blows smoke into your brain, languidly soaks every dark corner
Until you hide a serrated knife under the seat of your car.

For safety.  For comfort.  Just in case you decide to let go of the heart in your fist. 

You reach under the seat to make sure the knife is still there

Gleaming with the charm of a vampire, panting, scratching ….

There are lines carved into your arm, the battered map to oblivion: 

Tender supplication.    

I’ve tried the egg salad croissant. 

The flaky, sodden bread spongy and sad at the bottom

A mess

Worse than death.