The Bitch in my head says I’m a Scar On the Universe.
only slightly : the roadmap of my skin,
always under construction. And internally
I don’t trust my own structure;
constant buttressing, connecting disparate bits
– maybe it’s a hunger, expressing itself as human –
whatever it is, that has enmeshed
parts I wish departed to the point
has left me adopting the facade of a Saint
tolerating pain for pain’s sake
swallowing whole the Things I Cannot Change.
Days pass, and some breaths there’s a grace
welling in my lungs I can’t explain – I mean,
I _can_, I just choose not to : unable to afford
any kind of jinx
until all shoes have touched down. It’s bitter
that all Will Be Okay when it is not. That acrid-acid
with ephemeral sweet underneath; my life
become well marbled dry-aged meat.