PSYCHIC

The psychic asks my friend if I plan to kill myself.

She misgenders me and gives the wrong birthday
            but still I listen to the recording.

My friend tells the psychic I did at an earlier
time, which is true, and tells me when she plays
the recording of the reading that she was mainly
            thinking of my poems.

I have to look my friend in the eyes and say,
            I’m not going to kill myself.

Strangely I love being alive,
            foolishly,         fleetingly.

The psychic says he senses a heaviness in me,
which I feel too, driving along the dark night lake.

I sense its denseness, the way it absorbs
moonlight, could absorb me. I want to

swallow it, be swallowed, still want
to be, alive in the belly the body

of water that becomes everything,
            that everything becomes.

Nothing can take that from me, I tell
the psychic, this poem, my life.

I will meet Nothing when it comes,
            but until–

Robby Auld is a writer living in Waltham, MA. Their poems appear or are forthcoming in the lickety~split and BULLSHIT LIT. Find them on Instagram @heartthrobby666 and on Twitter @robbyauld.