the moth that beats itself to death against the chandelier dies an unheroic death in the corner of the study. heroic is listening to Jeff Buckley on repeat and not getting in the car to drive. repeating your sentences because your head is all messed up and you don’t recall where you end and the madness begins. you find yourself lying on the back lawn at dinnertime. look at the stars you say. they don’t make them like this in the big smoke. in the big smoke you never saw this many helicopters. the helicopter flew so low the chandelier shuddered. that’s what you tell your girlfriend when she asks. what it is that you are doing as she lovingly prepares a fig and cheese tart. you don’t hear because your ear is pressed to the wood panelling on the side of the house. I’m listening to the house’s heart beat is what you say when your girlfriend calls from an open window. a warm hand on your shoulder is not the same as a finger over a flickering flame. a knife against your wrist is not doing the dishes. your insistence on dead-locked doors will cause alarm after the fifth time. you are not Jeff Buckley. you are not heroic. just depressed. you are the moth that beats itself to death against the chandelier and that’s what you should say next time your girlfriend asks. helicopters belong in the sky not grazing suburban rooftops in broad daylight. no matter how many spy movies you’ve never watched a SWAT team will not spiral down a rope and break down your door. forgive her when she asks Are You Okay? because this is what I talk about when I talk about helicopters.