I don’t remember the instant
I started getting older -
my tired heart reminds me
that I’ve been trying to die
since I came into the world,
kicking and screaming and bloody.
Some of us are broken by the sound
of the starting pistol, and we never quite
manage to gather all the pieces
before we take off running -
and we spend our whole lives
trying to fill those holes.
A dying woman spoke in tongues
on my couch, her eyes white and her lips
moving as if disconnected from her body -
but never as separated as I was from her;
wherever it is we go from this world
it’s the transition I fear, if anything.
I was eleven the first time I thought about dying
and I haven’t stopped since.