Call this a cry for help

because it’s not a poem it’s not
words it’s not me
sitting here and stitching words
into some thing that makes sense
it’s the sound of information plunging
out of the world and into some garbage
bin somewhere on the internet
where no one will ever know it
it’s a pair of weighted dice landing
on faces they’re not supposed to
it’s the frozen morning remnant
of a lily that blooms too early
it’s what happens when you break
a promise that you made to yourself
and it’s a mound of disembodied
chapped bloody hands pointing
at a fragmented memory you
can’t find a path out of