Len Gurts Works Harder

Even in the depths of my “despair” and “pain”
(I am so distant again. I exist bitterly today
in other social poetries) I absolutely love it, this world,
this mirror: try and touch me haha. Psychosis flirts;
Jesus comes in the mirror saying, Not by
the hairs of my… I don’t know why. I cry
and think of nursery rhymes. Why would anyone

leave me? Did I ruin the plan? Was I wrong
to chew the bullets? These “bullies”—these tricks
of syntax: they do not touch me. And if I can be
more poetic it’s just that I scream and cry at the horrors
as I smile next to them—I reassure myself—
it is not a mask but a human. And it is… it is…
a beauty—birthing—breaking down its own placenta.