When Spring collapsed into Flat light
into the wisps of summer refusing
to suffocate under its own weight,
I cut each wrist with broken glass,
something whole I once drank from
when I was young
when I was a god
so gleaming in my suburbian lust,
so forgiving of my cheesy
and moldy cross-eyed lovers,
on Sundays
they would poison me
with glazed ham
those saw-tooth cuts
and their tasteless
transparent blood.
I ate and drank
until we almost died
dying
keep dying
and it was no longer summer.