Weekly feature by: Rebecca Starkman

I had that dream where you died again feeling relief woken by despair waiting I fell in black tar—the kind you find at Dolores Park—and it stained my lung I coughed up gilded fighting tooth and nail to hold in rot a little longer, a little longer xanax clouds hold no water but that’s OK because we can go anywhere if you just look to the sky in-between for mercy suicide and how there’s nothing wrong with a little belief in god and punishment and alcoholic comas seducing misery is tricky to sustain you tumble into momentary recovery tripping through rolling fields of landmines and The Flaming Lips facilitate hollow sex tearing soul from frail body yes this is what a little suicide feels like