If not for the thorns, gnarls,
blood for sap, the claws of Harpies,
I wouldn’t mind becoming a tree.
Hell’s only one form of punishment.
Sometimes Abilify doesn’t help.
Or 200 milligrams of Lamictal.
Sometimes my therapist makes
no sense. Sometimes I lie to him.
Yet it all now seems banal to me.
I’m in no hurry to die, descend.
Lest there’s a chance I’ll be saved instead,
separated from heathen family, friends,
I remember there’s always lust to fuel.
There’s always greed, gluttony.