Another night locked in the bathroom,
another lonely, bathtub dinner, another
napkin rubbed translucent with grease
tossed to the flooding stone bin–
it’s all led to this. Ants in my sink,
in my trash, mistaking my waste
as a peace offering, an invitation
to come in from the cold. I find them
under the slick pearl of soap in dish,
running greedy jaws over the bristles
of my toothbrush, my floors outlined
by a swarming pointillism, a hundred grains
of obsidian roiling beneath my feet.
Always looting waxen q-tips, nail clippings,
mucus-hardened tissues, all those pieces
of myself I try to get rid of. I set out poison,
drown them in toilet bowl and basin,
devote whole hours to crushing them
between my thumb and index until
they’re but stains on my fingertips, smudges
on the toothpaste-speckled countertop.
I’m so stuck in this impulse to murder
that I forget my reasons for wanting them
all dead. How can it be so easy?
Stamping out those small lives for nothing
more than hauling off all those fragments
of myself that I’ve thrown away and crawling
to the Earth to build a colony from them?