Some pretend to know
how to fill a void
as if each disease
is constructed of
the same poison.
Kneel with me
all you saints!
Hear my confessions
of delirium before
consciousness.
No substance—
liquid or gas
solid, spirit, or smoke—
fills this emptiness,
assuages this ulcer.
How did it get there
seemingly overnight?
One day when I was out
walking the dog?
Balancing the books?
Or did it consume me
sluggishly slow?
Drop and drip to rivlet
to river of throb to ache
to piercing shards.
Now, each sleep is
haunted by arsenic
vapors until light’s fetid
breath wakes my eyes
to see thorns, not petals.
I knew a girl once who
was a much wiser me,
had no tall terrors,
did terrible things,
with joy, yes, with joy.
A ghost of that me is
busy being someone
else’s idea of ought to be me
with no self-owned ideas
in any pocket or purse.
Some say, “One.”
is the days-at-a-time
this time is made of.
But, there is no true path.
We stumble to our door.
My hands are empty.
My grip is strong, but
I have nothing to hold.
Memories of pain fade
faster than painful memories.
When did my vision blur?
Are these fearsome twins—
loneliness/being alone—
conjoined, identical,
or fraternal?
These fears cross
my road like a
graveside tollgate.
I seek the change
that makes it rise.