I collect self-help books like vintage wares,
Loading my basket with
The Girl Boss Guide to Self Care,
What to Do When Your Mum Wasn’t There, and
Get Your Shit Together, You Dumb Bitch.
I also add some lesbian erotica, as a treat,
A palate cleanser to remove the tart taste between my teeth.
I make spreadsheets for coping mechanisms rated out of ten,
Next to ways to stave off the existential dread,
And track what days I did and didn’t leave my bed,
And how often I left people on read.
I write a timeline of my life,
And join each event with thread
Until it forms one sticky web,
So it might all make sense and
Maybe I’ll slice the diseased parts of
My brain and throw them away with the
Eggshells and carrot peel and maybe I’ll bathe in
Pink Himalayan salt and apple cider vinegar and
Tear off my toenails like the posters of bands I
Liked before I found out they were rapists and maybe
I’ll pluck my eyelashes and wax my stomach with
Duct tape and maybe I’ll emigrate to my bed and peel my skin
Like a boiled egg and hold the shards to my chest and put this
Whole shit show to rest.