Plaster

Cold thumbs, like bolts,

pressed into the crevices of my skull

keep my head together;

an expedient fix

for my recurrent rupture.

My tongue is somewhere in my throat

dancing a final waltz,

drunk from the life's it had touched,

thinking not of the hangover that

tomorrow's loneliness brings.

Death—I am no [longer able to survive

this vessel the Lord has intended for me,

give me any]thing else.