my culling

i knew there

was always something wrong

with always knowing something wrong

about i

like how i can’t write

about myself all too well

because once i say

i’m pretty great

with all the ugliness

i can muster

i feel myself

sliming out

just like that:

mustard gas slinking yellow

that makes me hurl on myself

and from myself outside

where my feet tickle the edge

of my building

that doesn’t know how to laugh

in a game i didn’t know

i was playing until

it was over

and all was right

without me

which might be both

pretty and ugly

and such a connection

of two truths through

i would be great

enough to raise me

from the dirt,

unless the cleaners

cull me first