a note to the author

is it a cruel form of desperation that compels you to defuse yourself in fear of your own implosion?
is it cruel because it is a task for your hands alone? in all others it would be unholy sterile violence
in yours, it is an act of wistful love, as delicate as a naturalist loosening a butterfly’s wings
sometimes, with requisite mourning, you must fragment your absoluteness
at times, when fractured you are more tenacious than when whole