Panic

I felt it trickle
Like a bead of sweat
Trailing between by breasts
It ran down my terrific scar
And sat there
Before the weight and heat of it
Snapped open my eyelids
Sent my fingers searching
Searching, my hands
Grasping now at the pillows
And the covers
Drowning in cotton
Stop
Breathe
I can’t, I can’t
Pinned to the mattress,
Staring at the ceiling,
Blue in morning light

Place Feet Here

This life
Is a spitting contest
With god,
Or the devil:
Wrestling matches
With my own
Angels, or
Demons;
Two sides: Same coin.

This life
Is an apology.
I’m sorry I’m happy.
I’m sorry for my pink skin.
I’m sorry for falling down.
I’m sorry for crying in front of you.
There is always more;
Most of the sins are lost
In folds of black silk;
The fabric of your death shroud;
Lost in generations
Of DNA,
Or one thousand births;
Your choice.

This life
Is a quest.
A spiraling path
Inward.
The more I learn
To love myself,
You like me
Less,
And the less I care
What you think,
I am able to love
You more;
The more I love you,
The more you can hurt me.
The more you hurt me,
The deeper I travel
Toward myself.
Vicious cycle?

This life
Is the funniest joke,
Told badly,
Punchline untimely revealed
Stammeringly, then
Taken back.
“Let me start over.”
So much practice
In the mirror,
I can only search
For my own reflection
In your eyes and
My own mortality
Among the tiny folds
In wrinkling flesh at
The corners;
Die laughing.