Substack Told Me

Substack told me that accounts of suicidal ideation wouldn’t be received well.

Sometimes, understanding’s a curse. But they’re not my first.

No amount of restraint lubricates how hard a sad sight penetrates. In weeping for the limping dog, I’m not alone.

The steps connecting my womb to outside traffic are in ruins. The rubble accosts my worn-out sneakers, aiming for the toes, crunching, “let mine fetish save you.”

Menace is everywhere but somewhere else.

I had a dream that I was calmly and mechanically bashing a kneeling, acquiescing sensei’s head in with a hammer. Blood gushed out first, and a dense, thick, viscous yellow liquid followed, and the last thing I remember is the confusion.

How terrifying this thing called freedom is.

Substack and I both misread the constitution upon the arrival of consciousness. In their obstinacy to limit my lexical adventure, they’ve given me an impunity that opens up possibilities and only exacerbates the writer’s harum-scarum existence.

Full disclosure: Substack’s never been here.

And I'd better let my comeuppance catch up to me.