Poems of mental distress
I’m sorry, the optimist cannot come out to play today,
She’s chained up in a dark cavity,
Somewhere in the basement of my emotional cortex.
Fuck the bitch,
She gets enough playtime.
It’s my turn now.
I come out about four times a year,
And my kind of play is sick and twisted,
Carving one word into the skin of this body
Repeatedly with my fingernails,