Maybe it was the black
mold that killed me.
The kind that stares at
you from the bathroom
walls or perhaps
it was the broken sink,
Exposed at the seams,
inviting in bugs that
crawled into my dreams
while feasting on my
Flesh. Though it
could have been
the germ infested
kitchen. The one
with shit water
Spouting from the sink
like a blue whale’s
blowhole that has me
washing my hands as
vigorously as a germophobic.
I suppose it also
could have been the
way the house was
stuffed with things
like it was ready to
burst at its not so
carefully put together
edges that made me
feel claustrophobic since
there was barely room to
breathe. It could have also
been the recalled truck,
the one my dad never
thought to fix.
Perhaps the air bag
killed me when it
Spontaneously activated,
Breaking my sternum,
allowing my insides
to bleed. But I
think it was the
Hopelessness
that killed me.
The kind of hopelessness
One feels when
Trying to dig a
hole in mud,
seeing a break
in the surface
Gives you hope,
so you continue
digging even though
the hole refills
Faster than you
can dig it. Soon
You tire and stop
to ponder why
there is no progress.
then your spirit sinks
as you realize it’s
something that cannot
be done.
Slowly you lay back
into the mud and
Let it swallow you
whole.

yes, it was the hope
filled hopelessness
that killed me.
That small whisper of,
“Maybe things will change.”