One morning, I got angry at myself. The self that exists in this country. And I wrote a poem. Sometimes I really think it’s not enough to just be a keyboard warrior. And then sometimes I think I don’t have any me to do anything else. Fatigue. Capitalism. Deciding if I eat or pay rent this month. All that. You know the deal.

I was recently published in an anthology of poems about death, and this is about me being on page 31 of that book.