When Will She/He Snap?

by Randall Rogers

the essence of my idiosyncrasy is
basically a terror, a panic
a fear of me doing myself in
like Laura, Jim, Uncle Harry
Wally and Mom did
in a sordid slide into alcoholism
until getting progressively weaker
the body the liver first
just gives up

or bleeding into the brain
makes you garble a few
backwards sentences
and slump over
breathing heavily
snoring loudly
till silence
and you’re dead.

drinking yourself to death is still
far more worthy than an
outright at the moment
cessation of one’s own life
like a bullet to the brain,
for example,

living la vida loca.