the grim reaper’s hand spent years gripping my neck and I was grateful
because death brought me more comfort than being alive.
the prospect used to feel like home but now I understand I was being choked
trapped in a purgatory where heaven was sticking my head in a noose and hell was the inevitable aftermath where
my father stumbles across my cold, rotting corpse
hanging from the ceiling fan.
god, I hate visualizing it.
the last time I visited my psychiatrist he said I should be in a hospital
but I told him that I didn’t want to die and was therefore fine
and my mom let out a sigh of relief.
and I’m sorry for being unhappy but it’s hard to be anything else
when your parents passed down their sadness to you along with the blue eyes
and your body doesn’t match your soul.
and I’m sorry for the inconvenience but
maybe I should be in a hospital
and poked and prodded and handled like an animal
like a bomb that’s eager to go off.
maybe I would feel at home
surrounded by other kids with tired eyes rather than
a mother who drinks too much and
brothers I can no longer take care of.
maybe I would feel at home
surrounded by bombs.
maybe I would feel at home
surrounded by nothing.
Avi Lentz is a high school senior and poet from Atlanta, Georgia.
Serotonin 