The Bitch in my head says I’m a Scar On the Universe.
She exaggerates

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 
they cannot
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 
to taste 
that all Will Be Okay when it is not. That acrid-acid  
with ephemeral sweet underneath; my life 
become well marbled dry-aged meat.