Someone left these ragged clothes under the bench
next to this broken bottle and pair of shoes. I can’t see
any signs of struggle but I know the person is dead.
In June they dredged the lake and found three corpses.
I imagine them like the sugar in the bottom of my coffee.
The sunlight tastes like cut grass and barbeque chicken
but it hardly trickles through the smog. I’m bleeding inside
and I don’t know why. I wear my skin like a bad joke—
like a sock with holes. It’s sunny in Los Angeles
and I’ve woken up for the past sixty-eight days hoping
to be hit by a bus, crushed under ceiling tiles, shot
in the eye. Jeans, socks, and a button-up shirt.
Fingerless gloves. Once I caught my hand on a hook
and had to push it all the way through to clip off the end.
When I die I hope no one notices for a while. I will hide.
I don’t remember the last time I felt a heartbeat
come from somewhere other than behind my eyes.
I think blood tastes like sunshine.
I think the city should be put to sleep.
Photo by Aaron Fruth