tracing patterns like blooddrips
down my face i wonder
where you are/who you’re with/
what’s the air like where you are
and i sit up, shivering in the stale night air,
and i weep;
for your heart,
for my discarded future.
tracing patterns like fresh slices
down my arms, i wonder;
who i am,
who i was,
who i am supposed to be.
i clutch my knees
the beginnings of hyperventilation
as panic seizes me
in her manic unforgiving grasp.
who am i, i, who writes?
who am i, i, who binds?
who am i, i, who screams?
tracing patterns like chalk outlines
on the tile, i idly wonder,
how i dare to even speak,
dare to dream of such impossibilities—
and yes, impossible they are, never
never to be,
always a distant torment,
gnawing at my rapidly diminishing frame.
tracing patterns idly
defrosting thin glass, i wonder;
how could i play the fool?
the voracious devourer of knowledge,
suddenly the clown, the softspoken
shakeshimmer eyes haunting me
a shade of silver i will never see.
the blood of some undiscovered creature,
all teeth and claws
and soft, poisonous promises
that go stale as soon