Sometimes late at night
when they’re done their rounds
and I’m sure no one is listening,
I speak to Sylvia Plath:
You’ve died before I had time—
we’re much the same,
though I may be a bit more of a Jew.
I’ve chugged red pills like cheap chardonnay,
months and months of manic merlot,
the sweet taste of candy coding
lingers on the tip of my tongue
words slip like skittles down my throat
unfinished, teeth stained blue.
Bitter, bile, better
work this time
if Dying is an art,
like everything else,
then I have failed art for art’s sake.
The second time
I double the dosage,
paint the whitewashed walls,
crawl under Jew linens
no space, no place,
just that bitter-sweet taste
I have done it again.