The sun will wither, falling in ribbons as a darkness that swallows you whole,
the concrete will reflect only your blood and teeth and pride,
when your head appraises the ground.
Love becomes what it always was, just a crass word, an overused joke,
being played only on you, as all the world’s laughter is cued,
at the way your pain hurts.
The sky will scowl at you, clouds like anvils dipped in disappointment,
swimming in an ocean of old handwritten missives and one-eyed teddy bears,
of which gave you comfort and offer respite from nothing.
Everything goes faint when you take too much on yourself,
drowning in a thicket of foul-smelling indignity,
trying to wash it away with all the unmagic of the universe.
One last call to god, one last handshake with sin, one last medicine bottle’s contents
worn thin, one last way to be strangled into submission, one last written
word, and you can achieve the triumph of turning everything good to murder.