How’s my summer?

Why, thank you for asking.

Who can complain, with the weather so fine?

The garden’s great, I fit into my thin shorts,

and I’ve embraced my suicidal ideations again.

It’s not like the last time this happened,

long ago – it’s been twenty years.

Back then I lived in bed

and went days without a shower.

This morning I’m out early pruning,

wearing a clean shirt, earrings, and lipstick,

wondering how much blood I could draw from my shears.

They’re more fantasies than rehearsals –

how everyone will feel such regret –

but the reactions are my biggest invention.

Truth is, no one would much care,

so I’ll keep caressing my ideations

like smooth stones in my pocket.