I don’t love you anymore.
I’ve been working on learning to love myself.
My therapist is helping me with this.
Also, I’m in love with my therapist.
Her method includes wearing a very short skirt
and sitting with her legs apart
while we talk about my unreasonable childhood,
the friends who betrayed me, the various pets
that mocked me and abandoned me.
I don’t want to live forever anymore,
only until the next Super Bowl,
which is when my subscription to Cat Fancy expires.
I no longer want to own things, I want them
to stream through the universe like spirits,
immaterial invisible rainbows
that live everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I no longer want to write the Great American Novel,
or the pretty good Canadian essay,
or the tolerable Norwegian short short story,
or the shitty haiku of unknown nationality.
I’d just like to write a decent suicide note.
My last attempt read Don’t forget
to feed Snuffy, which hit more or less the right tone
but wasn’t quite pithy enough to make it into
Best American Suicide Notes 2017.
I hear they’re developing a bomb
that disappears the people completely but leaves
the UPC codes intact. I hear
the new administration is going to replace
the sky with a massive flat screen TV.
I just hope that we can all agree
on what we want to watch.