self-mutilation of the modern day

no longer whispers of bound feet

but the psychiatric unwellness 

of those who slip under the radar

not tweakers, but lazy

not depressed enough to do something about it

only to bitch and moan until someone helps

they can’t ask for it, waiting for a handout

uncommitted to death

leaving the capable to drag their corpse

to safety, not rehab, not a shelter

but back to their deathbed, the last place we want to be

not we, never we 

this is meant to be special, an individual experience

we are killing ourselves

every hit every scratch

clawing at the wet clay of our unfinished sculpture

no need to score 

it’ll crumble in the kiln anyway

(written in 2024 at some point.)