I knew that I was really losing it
on Sunday the twenty-first.
not just suffering from the pains of
requited complications because in that moment
I wasn't thinking of him.
Wasn't thinking of him or of
the failures,
or the "before-I-knew"s,
or what was almost red,
or the choir,
or even the sickness.
None of it.
I was really losing it.
I walked toward the mailbox, but really I was
spiraling, spiraling down,
and there were three pieces of mail
with my then-cursed name on them.
And I set them down on a flat piece of wood.
The letters were not ignited.
The letters were not read.
I didn't care what the world had to say to me.
that night I dreamed I was a silhouette.
things weren't that dark,
but I wanted them to be.
I was losing it.
I was losing it because the unopened mail
didn't tell me I wasn't.