Autobiographical

By Eunice de Souza

Right, now here it comes.
I killed my father when I was three.
I have muddled through several affairs
and always come out badly.
I’ve learned almost nothing from experience.
I head for the abyss with
monotonous regularity.

My enemies say I am a critic because
really I’m writhing with envy
and anyway need to get married.

My friends say I’m not
entirely without talent.

Yes, I have tried suicide.
I tidied my clothes but
left no notes. I was surprised
to wake up in the morning.

One day my soul
stood outside me
watching me twitch
and grin and gibber
the skin tight
over my bones.

I thought the whole world
was trying to rip me up
cut me down go through me
with a razor blade.

Then I discovered
a cliche: that’s what I wanted
to do to the world.