I might wanna space all of these poems out for a couple days but whatever. Trump is president, or something.

I’ll help you kill 

all of your demons

one by one

with a flyswatter,

chrysanthemum extract,

and some hydrogen-peroxide. 

God, what I’d do to be 

seven molecules

of oxygen again. 

It probably isn’t as bad as 

what I’d do to be at least one

molecule of what makes up

you.