By Sammy Ginsberg
Feeling doubtful of why
I want to do anything.
All the things I once felt joy in
seem not so joyful.
I feel like Elizabeth, with my servant dead,
my younger brother dead,
my mother dead,
and my loving cousin off at college.
Except that no one is dead,
and everyone is here,
and only the thoughts in my head
are dead,
silent white lines on a heart rate monitor.
Sometimes, I don't know why I care.
Sometimes, I want to disappear,
and leave a little purple stain
on the bathroom mat.
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