All I Ever Do Is Die

All I Ever Do Is Die

By Diantay Teneralli

In the skin that I have left behind during the summer, 

I do it kindly. 

In the brief sips from a crackling stovetop, 

like a kiss in a prepackaged carnelian, 

a tinge in the right direction, it stops. 

A boom in the cornices, as it were.           Like a house fire, 

Disenflatable darling, sweetest at the filament. 

And unbrushed! A stand at once is my rejoicing for the break of winter, 

yet all I ever do is Die.

All of this newfangled death and I am dry from 

The last nice hello, 

stomaching the world on a feast three nights past. 

such a mean delight it is to eat my words. 

the great pink hell obnubilating its discharge. 

I am quite beautiful, no?

I am no God, not like the solidifying shame you have parsed from these folds. 

“‘We can’t all be winners,’ I’ll say,” I say as the last thing that touches their lips is how much I could have accomplished in a gut punch. 

And to that, I say rejoice! 

For all I’ve ever done is die!