Little Black Dot

chelsea,
it's one thirty in the morning,
you insomniac, you manic
depressive, pot addict.
here's an idea.
why don't you scrape the yolks of your eyes
off the picture of the falling flowers
with a spatula and eat them
for breakfast. you can take the whites too, if you're hungry enough.
why don't you get off the floor answer the door start acting poor
find the drawer with the hemp twine and kitchen shears.
carve out your nails and sew your fingers together so you can't
strike a match
pick the scabs later.
why don't you wash your hair
anymore. why don't you tell your body how
to unlearn twelve hundred cigarettes and remember
how you felt when you were still good.
why don't you try spending some time upstairs for a change.
you won't fall asleep on the carpet and you've long stopped sharing the bed
with your grief, a cold corpse beside you.
why don't you try listening.
avert your attention from the falling flowers.
it doesn't matter that they're rununculus
it doesn't matter that their fists are blooming fire
it doesn't matter what will happen when they hit the ground