Cathexis Northwest Press
His Name; The First Time I Asked Someone To Kill Me; My Therapist Suggests Lexapro
By: Anthony Aguero
So I asked him to come over.
I had been reading all day and
Crying because none of the pages
Said his name. His name which
Would have my name falling from
His lips like water from a delicate
Fountain. His name retracted from
History. His name I would repeat
Approximately five times, the last
Time while I’m brewing coffee
Alone. His name the sound of
Pages turning from my favorite
Book of poems, which I tell him
Is a secret. His name, something
I have devalued my body over.
His name without intruding sleep.
His name I split between my
Teeth. His name bound with
Honey and cellophane.
His name slipped into my tea.
His name losing value.
His name against my tongue
When I am mouthing an elegy.
His name in the act of restraint
His name the sound of wet leather
Against my skin. His name and
How it falls through your hands
Like picking up bathwater. His
Name with light passing through it.
His name. His name. His name.
His name somebody already killed.
So he is on his way and I cannot
Remember his name.
The First Time I Asked Someone To Kill Me
A body of humans manufactured the sharpest
object known to mankind: the tungsten needle.
An adult body contains billions, billions, and
billions of atoms. The whittling down to a
single-atom tip. And I am in someone’s bed
attempting to get out. But, first, ordering the
Uber. Then how to mention I am about to leave
Sorry, the car is here. You’re so sweet.
Is that blood running down your nose? Bye.
Let’s say nobody invents the tungsten needle.
Let’s say his body was the sharpest object
known to mankind and I was suffering under it.
Or, better, I am the creator of this entire mess.
Because I wanted to touch his eyes and feel
everything he has ever seen.
Because I wanted the humiliation to be palpable
enough that the spit wasn’t just spit but
some declaration of love and an atom being split.
That this sort of dying wasn’t my body
reaching out to someone for nothing.
My Therapist Suggests Lexapro
I wanted to be a better writer
so I shoved the bark of a tree
inside my wrists
and I wrote.
So the bark is inside my wrists
and I was thinking of happiness
against the sound
the medication made.
The medication shouldn’t have
to sound like happiness –
They did, and one day
I was stripping bark from a
lone tree. My wrists bled
so I wrote, and
all of that music.
Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared in the Bangalore Review, 2River View, The Temz Review, and The Acentos Review.