I see ghost stories of myself on Facebook, |
baby, vlogger baby, videos unviewed, |
unregulated. I call myself “child” now like |
ghost who calls itself alive. Depression is |
lacking a sob story. What if I bite it, live |
for no one to see? If I go, let’s boat trip. |
I can’t promise I’ll drown the memory, but |
I know I’ll forget where we go. Off script. |
There’s a camera somewhere. How do I say |
don’t record my nightlife lifestyle, how I |
don’t know. This is hardly wanted, the love |
for forgetting. It’s so easy. I model my cash |
receipts as a verdict. Guilty baby. Just him |
and this house. And the ghosts. Skeletal |
frame of a sentence, lulled to a worse truth. |
Curated. Algorithmic. Who wanted this? |

| Be where I      feast forever like raccoon
|           unwanted, trash eater baby.     A diet
|     city in gentrified glory. Home serves a
| gravedigger girl        requesting dead songs
|                        with the only coins leftover,
| she says,
|                                    please drop by.
| No one’s going anywhere anymore anyway.
|           I want      to chew what I hate,
|                      devour what I love, I
| made us carnal.             Blame me, Birdie,
|            for dinner. Tomorrow, I serve my
| – self               raw.      Who wants my body?
| Freakshow says,                     mine, mine,
|           Doc can’t cleanse me,
|                                                my memory.