For These Morbid Thoughts

For these morbid thoughts, go to the mountains and cry.

For these morbid thoughts, kill all your darlings.

For these morbid thoughts, shower as soon as you can.

For these morbid thoughts, know that it won't pass.

For these morbid thoughts, say cheers to the angels.

That'll piss them off.

Angels can't stand stark naked truths.

They are a bit showbizzy that way.

In fact, I think the world became a brooding self-righteous asshole

just as the angels became American gigolos.

I flinch at the disgusting things I did when I was broken beyond recognition.

I furrow my brow in eternal disapproval.

My kid has let me down.

I didn't bring her up to let people in like that.

To allow strangers to take parts of me that were never meant for them.

But for these morbid thoughts, cleanse with all the dead writers

who spoke of love, friendship and all the other things in between.

For these morbid thoughts, hold yourself together.

For these morbid thoughts, raise your fingers to the last light.

For these morbid thoughts, place both your hands on the throat and feel the pulse.

Maybe choke a little.

Maybe try a little, for a minute or two, to be unresponsive.

For these morbid thoughts, thank god that friends who don't know friendship

are not there anymore.

For these morbid thoughts, take a longer stride.

Fuck those morose motivations of today's time

saying what novel banality it is to live sacredly successful.

I'll fail as much as I want to.

And finally, for these morbid thoughts, fail better.

Sumaya Mashrufa is a writer and poet based in Dhaka.