handfuls of air

I chop myself into pieces.

Every day: chop, chop.

The pieces I like, I keep,

assemble and freeze for later.

I think I'm clever arranging in words

pieces of me, safe in time.

I can make them last.

Chew, chew, I force myself

to chew the pieces.

They were part of me, after all.

They must hold meaning. But they don't

keep; they rot. I hold on

to my rancid collection,

repeating, preserving with willpower.

Think, think, as time does its trick.

Time eats my leftovers.

And the taste, the stench,

it grows. I cannot stand it.

I throw me away.

Not a rejection because

the thing that does the throwing

remains.

But what am I now:

dead trash or living tragedy?