LIFE Poem: How to Stop Hating Yourself, by Jacob Roberts

Ketamine. Lots of it.
Yoga and meditation
until it hurts, a sustained formal apology—
on your knees, forehead heavy
on the earth—to your body. Carefully deplete
your xanax stash.

White powder press
the metallic taste is medicinal
this is the practice.

Remember the hose
that connects the bag
to the tank
to your face.

Apologize and make space.

Empty yourself. Your thoughts
are not your self. Your diagnoses
are not your self. Other people

have better thoughts than you.
Two coyotes in front of a house.
Neighborhood dogs, with neon spikes on their backs.
The coyotes bite, get a mouth full of pain,
and an ear full of yelping, panicked rage.

Must get sleep. Must warn others.
Cobalt, copper, nickel, and aluminum
lithium and wifi waves
the rainbow is an alchemy of distractions
tendon stress, delicate, the gristle is elastic

To my body,
I’m sorry.
I really fucked things up. Even when I was trying
to fix the issues, I think
I just made them worse.
Or added new complications.

aluminum, brass
copper, ash

Take walks
admit the other people, the other thoughts:
hunks of steel, a bell, some tongs,
simple insights, prayers and songs—
miscellany; a pile of impurities to defile and discharge,
anodic coating to prevent corrosion,
stir, simmer, brew the potion. You
are your own thing even if your body is broken.

Breathe in the other thoughts.
Breathe out the inner thoughts.
Advice and concern,
logs, accelerant

burn.
forge
pound
shape and carve
the thoughts
into a glowing
wakizashi sword

drive the point inward

carve open your belly
the wickedness will flow,
and spill into foul curls.

Your body
does not accept
the apology.

Neighbors walk past,
tiptoeing around the blood, fresh pavement mess
saving their pets from the feral dogs
with bleeding gums, eyes oozing hunger and regret.
You have to tell on yourself
before someone else does.

Reach into a bag,
gather your coiled hate,
contain the shame,
pick up the waste,
invert, face
the sun, just over the horizon now
making the blacktop
glimmer and shine. Toss the trash
into the garbage mouth.

The awkward, wounded wolves
follow your scent.
Their instincts leave them
no other choice.
From behind every tree
a wild, helpless dog
could pounce
you have no choice either.

The trees lead by example,
listening
dogs speak
their truths
behind fence posts
to the coyotes, singing

It’s ok to want to die.
To want more time
and connections
with people
is to want
to live,

to buckle under the weight
of time. Disintegrate

the impurities mixing with the metal
into the orange-black molten heat.

Rooftops reflect the sun. Smoke and steam, rising
the haze acceding to the demands
of the sky
as the dogs bark and the coyotes
run back to the hills, with scraps of metal
in their teeth