IS SOME PLANET ALWAYS IN RETROGRADE OR AM I JUST DEPRESSED?

I’m just saying I don’t believe Mercury would

hurt me like this. I mean we should be in love,

in each other’s cold orbits. It’s been far too long

since I’ve felt like anything other than a Lamictal symptom:

hangnailed & purple, this balling cloud. & unfortunately

the body makes more room for me.

Of course I pocket paint chips when I’m lonely.

I like my pink blue white

little striped America that pokes into my thigh.

I think Earth will be the next truly dead planet

which is fine, I guess, if you like dying

belly-up, awake to witness. I’ve tried.

My parents could never tell me the time

that I was born & that’s why I can’t sleep

good anymore. I mean well. I mean

the grammar of me doesn’t matter.

I could be so many untetherings. Predict my future,

the rings of surprises on all my fronts, & I’ll stop

waiting on some milky entropy to take me out.

I know I’m no Cassiopeia. But I’m working

on it. Before the seas swell, before the sky dips—

I’ll beat it. I promise I’m becoming

whatever self I’ve starred & plotted

the next time someone sizes up my chart:

LION SUN GRIEFSTRUCK MOON FUCKING RISING