Fall is in Season (poem)

I.
Something is broken.
It might be me.

II.
Not so long ago
in a very near land
lived a girl who loved
a boy and the boy loved
the girl and everyone knew it
and no one was happy.

III.
Maybe there really is no one
like me—occasionally suicidal
with thoughts of thoughts of death.
Passive masochist. Maybe I am
brilliant and glinty like a fresh faced
chandelier. Maybe I’m unreal.

IV.
Really, I am.
I am, I am, I am.
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.
Now stick my head in an oven
and step on the gas.
I was doing just fine
until a man stepped in my path.

V.
Yeah, I love him
and, yeah, he loves me.
But that’s the easy part.