Sure, I would rather be awake than asleep

I would rather lay beneath the vast infinity of

The sky than

Beneath the peeing paint and

Faded glow-in-the-dark stars

(Dollar tree, of course)

Of my bedroom ceiling -

But someone has to act first, and it’s

Not going to be me.

Think of any Messiah,

Any Jesus Christ or

Greta Thunberg, I guess.

They ended up how?

Nails in palms,

Palms full of blood,

Pressed to a cross

Or ripped to shreds by the press.

You’re crazy or you’re fake,

Or you’re a rude, radical bitch.

So yes,

I will grow older and

Let my will be taken away day to day

I will shift from watering cans full of flowers

And handfuls of ferns

And dark, earthy moss to

Things that force me to laugh

(Because I’ve forgotten how)

And things that make me feel numb

(Because nothing is worth feeling anymore)

It’s either shoot or get shot,

So I am launching a preemptive

Initiative to do nothing,

To stand with my palms pressed

Against the cold glass of my window

As I watch my

Disoriented friend back his car

Over the garden

I planted when I was nine,

Trying to ignore the sunlight

And the way the whole room smells like spring.