Blake Levario

I touched a tree and died, but it wasn’t scary. I knew I was going to respawn.

This time it might be different—my vices: different. I settle down with uncertainty.

But the usual suspects of daily life make their way into my bed at night.

Dreams of paramedics showing up to emergencies and yawning, moving slowly.

For that I’d sell my soul. But then I’d be back again. Okay, now this time things will be different.

My heart is so big, I ruin other people with it. They forgive me and then I do it again.

At what point do you say, I’m too damaged to carry on?

For the next 10 seconds rate the pain of every stationary object from 0 to 10.

Mirror: 5 / window: 10 / ever growing pile of clothes: 2 / weighted blanket: 7.

None of this can stop. My safety word is alarm clock. Start again.

In this life my two moods are: doves in mourning and I need to save the world.

The rain is light. I want everything to be different. I begin to wish for this:

Less crying babies. Uncreased sneakers. More fire extinguishers. No guns.