the arch of my foot hurts
Google tells me I’m dying
my poetry’s getting worse
it’s like I’m not even trying

it’s asinine
I’m pretending that word is mine
I asked Google what it meant before this
it still told me I’m dying

I’m trying to sound more manic than I am
all short fuses and quick wit
I bite my cuticles
down to raw, bloody tips
do you need cuticles? do you really need them? I search
and Google tells me I’m dying

I’ve beaten my brain down to pulp
the icky kind of orange juice
the sweet and tang and texture of ants on your tongue
where are the oranges from? I search
“genetic modification labs down in Florida” Google answers
“also, you’re dying”

I peel the skin off of my lips
until they’re sensitive and pink
it saves money on lipstick
oversaturates them like ink

I roll the skin up into little pills
to be found again when I’m sweeping
I’m sleeping
and the ache smeared over my mouth
still shows up in my dreams
and Google tells me I’m dying

“I’m dying,” I think, “I’m dying”
I’m suffocating in a Denny’s parking lot
highlighter-sign lit up late
I’m anxious because I’m tired because I’m anxious because I’m tired
it becomes one big paradox
will the math ever negate?

But I’m not dying
I’m not
anxiety likes little white lies
like the little pills of skin
scattered across my floor
I Google if I should Google my symptoms anymore

and Google tells me I’m dying.