If

If killing yourself meant game over or a real restart; 

my bathtub runneth over 

and automatic weapon to the heart. 

I cry because it’s easy. 

I scream because no one is listening. 

And I’m fine with it 

because what is there to say? 

It’s all been sketched, erased, sketched, 

ballpoint penned into archives and archives 

of “good art”. 

A crumb the bakery divvies to each 

grubby and mildly infected set of fingers; 

pinching and pulling 

to only end up with a little clay ashtray 

for Mother.