The Wounded Inner Child Speaks

I am

a relic of possibility, skin rice-paper thin, a genetic condition on my father’s side.

environment’s puppet: the compost pile of days and
 weeks best forgotten.

human-shaped sponge soaking up psychic debris.

barometer, the rise and fall of mercury; a reckless hand dropping the thermometer; the falling, breaking, accidental poisoning.

['could i have been anyone other than me?' 
i whisper to the butterfly flapping its wings in tokyo.]


first born, rough draft, toxic release.

stop-sign red biohazardous waste filled to overflowing with sharps.

sins, confessed; your penance.


that which made the ground fertile for your masterpieces.

(were it not for the indentation in my mattress,
 i’d think myself an echo,
 phantom pain.)


held breath desperate for release, cell-deep exhaustion; plummeting blood sugar, the resultant shock.

myoclonic jerking to consciousness, only two toothpicks to hold open your eyes.

half-empty glass knocked off the table in frustration, hurried hands picking up bloody shards.

pumped stomach, Frankenstein wrist, feckless cries for help.

the thing with feathers that won’t let you die, though this can’t 
be construed as living.

the truth that even 15 shots of tequila can’t erase.

reality’s unflattering light, harsh but
 honest.

everything you never wanted but forced yourself to love.

painstakingly handwritten lists of dreams, folded and unfolded, torn, in the back of some kitchen drawer.

regret.

regret.

streams of salty regret behind closed doors, and finally

resignation.