Dog’s make the world a better place

Give me a dog, let it lick
the serotonin back into my nervous
system – who called it the nervous
system anyway, as if any part of the body
wants to be the self-fulfilling prophecy
of a breakdown planted in its origin.

I have always wondered
how I would die. Like, overthought
it a hundred times, played it
on a loop so that every time I see myself
crossing the street I see me
getting hit on by a car.
Only the car did not like me, it hated me
for getting its bumper blemished.

Or when I walk down the stairs, I will see me
tripping and falling down.
I can already imagine the way my bones
will protrude my thick flesh vessel,
the dopamine-releasing adrenaline that will not be working
because hello, worst-case scenario doomsayer over here!
So yes, I will feel the pain.
And yes, it will feel like I was born three months early
and don’t know how to breathe yet.

So get me a dog, a fluffy puppy preferably,
and let it make me drown in oxytocin.
I will overdose on oxy if it makes me even the slightest degree
happier.
Make me believe my entire existence is not
what I thought it was, a miserable dark hole.
My birthday the devil’s holiday.
So let the dog’s birthday fall on this same satanic celebration,
where pigs are slaughtered just for the fun of it
and their organs are handed out as free-for-all gifts,
and then maybe,
maybe, it’ll turn angelic.

Maybe, I can call my dog a saint
for teaching me that life can be precious
when you give it the meaning
where there used to be a black hole.
How it would be so dense even light got sucked in,
but now the world is pulsing
and radiating like a PET-scan
of a cancerous child.
Because yes, the world is fucked up.
But yes, dogs make it better.