Status.

Chewing.

Chewing through my own fat.

Through my lips and teeth and cheeks.

Sore and swollen, but I keep biting.

Itch I just can't scratch.

I'm cradling a deadly thing, touching it.

Watching it.

I've got a pocket full of nothingness

For once.

Nowhere to go

But up.

My restless tongue pushes through my mouth

As if getting out would help.

Courage?

"...they gather their courage, and they give it a try..."
I sit on the floor of a motel shower, pushing a sliver of soap across the shelf on the bottom of the shower door.
I shuttle it back and forth a few times, and then rinse the soap slime from my fingers.
I take stock of my skin- sallow pale, instead of my usual milky pale under the harsh motel bathroom light. I'm the wrong color. I wonder if anyone else has noticed.
For something to do, I count.
43.
I count again.
42.
The shower spray is narrow, though, only comforting one side of my back at a time. I sway slowly back and forth to warm my arms.
I rinse my hair again.
The water covers my ears, and for a minute, the drops hitting my wet head are louder than my thoughts. They're louder than my confusion. My ears are filled in this instant with something other than a jumbled loneliness, excitement, regret, and insecurity.
I am thankful for endless motel bathroom hot water.

Here, There, Again

Ask me.
Ask me again.
Tell me more.
Drifting away again, washing up on some distant shore
Unfamiliar territory, but isn't this a familiar position, darling?
Always a little far away, a little off, a lifted corner
And veiled meaning.
A lilting song brights my spirits a moment here or there

My turn to disengage.
Watch me disappear.
Eyes shining, hold me still
Hold me here
Close and tight.
One last footprint left in the snow
Right where I thought it might be.

Ask me.
Tell it again, the story of that time by the lake
Mysteries we made out of mud and mist
Tales we twisted out of reeds and grass
Glass water, our only audience.

Somehow we grow closer, through this.
Somehow we get from here to there
One path or another, it doesn't really matter.
Sparks fly wide, in time or space but not both.

Minor keys rattle between my ears,
Through my grandmother's laugh, through a screen door
Shattering windows that never quite crash all the way down
Whispers tangle all together, their cool watercolor storms
Bring me to my knees again.

Trading in my hard-won tokens for winding strands of real gold
Few and wondrous
But I wonder whether I was better off with brass coins.
Whether my imaginary prize was more precious
Than the jeweled thing I hold


Third string.
Muted laughter.
Strangled meaning.
Nothing fits.
It's all too much.
The death of the sun.
Last march.
Orange defeat.
Splendorous.
12-bar Blues.