Disconnect

Human disaster is contagious, so I’m left

alone, like I thought I wanted. Self-pity says

no one wants a sinking ship

of a woman, rafting on hate for how much

what she knows she keeps taking. No heartbreak

or inspiration to sell as end goal,

rarely beauty. Instead, indictment

and unrelenting grief, pain and identifying

purpose, blame and sour shame—all

wounds that won’t heal. World won’t

let the stitches set before landing

another blow—no entertaining real

solutions. Outside the self the reckoning

bulks up like a recurrent tumor. Or a monstera

flown free of its old planter. I read on the Internet

that plants are brains. Quiet pulses of green

unseen except by time lapse. I can imagine their depression

when one of them dies. Living the tragedy of being

ahead of one’s time while predicting

possible futures ain’t for the faint-hearted,

just the foolish. I can’t help how my brain wires

catastrophic knowing. What happens when alchemy fails

all the way? When medicines and glyphosate combine

over time with moonshine mistakes

to finally trip the liver’s limits? Remember me as kind

and messy, a brighter contradiction than even I

could handle. If I didn’t live

as hard as I could have, disaster self and all, I’d still

wish you all a thousand times better.

This poem appeared in Amsterdam Review, Spring 2026.

10.09.2026

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