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note to self II
dear self,
though i have written to you
before regarding the stretching of
your arm so far, wide & high up
in the air, that the ceiling fan chops
at me (fingers on your right hand),
this time i’m writing on behalf of
your left hand, whose hairs that line
the wrist were savagely singed only
a few minutes ago, when your stupid
ass reached too lowly over a burning
candle to get something. please
remember the smell of the burning
hair (akin to burnt popcorn) & think
about how lucky you were, idiot,
to burn only the hair & not your skin.
sincerely,
the fingers on your right hand
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