365 Poems – 172 Breakdown (Rough First Draft)


I can’t tell you precisely

when I had my first breakdown,

when I agreed to slip on

that close strangeness,

and feel unfamiliar

even to myself.


I can’t tell you when

I became a weak copy.

It was a natural mistake,

with strong implications.

I felt like a dull fiction.


I do remember that

I operated with truthfulness

for days, and was

a reliable argument.


The strange one

who has come to nothing

they called me in the cafe.

College kids dared

each other to ask me

about my plans,

in the hope I’d say

‘cut my own head off.’


They had an underdeveloped

understanding of what it meant

to be ill in the head.


Today, I notice curious details,

but still hide when I want to breathe

on my own. Love for life

has come spilling back,

and I drink in every point,

like when  a frost is disappointing,

or when then moon refuses to hide.