Folding yourself up into yourself until
you don’t exist —
until you’re a single point of light —
is the best way to go.
I try this in my bed
with little success.
It would help me shed the excesses
of this liquid frame.
I’d be squeezed like a tube
my eyeballs would
burst, my blood vessels would
pop, and all the juices would
run out, staining everything and running
into the crevasses of everything like watercolor,
ink on the pages of an old book.
My bones would grind down to a fine powder
as if I had
I fold myself in two.
I’m a stuffed suitcase, the pressure
building on my windpipe,
my lungs like a bellows, the air condensing, my stomach
like a fleshy, acid-filled balloon.
a crepe, a piece of cardboard or a page of newspaper:
My fingernails would blow off like rivets on a bulkhead;
the gasses in my joints would boil.
I’d be a series of diminishing halves;
You could fold me up into nothingness,
and I could waft away on a breeze,
dance in the sunlight like a speck of dust.