In Los Angeles
I almost steered into a tree
my overloaded car,
overloaded with me.

I’d never felt so unlike myself,
a self willing to kill myself.
the day I left my mind
I left my future
behind

toward anything I’m capable of
desert,
drought
drowning,
flood. Northbound
and home, away
from the machine,
the killing machine,
acting alone,
unable to admit
the killing machine was me.