Who am I? 

Each bone of my

brittle body bring

bruises to my mind. 

 

As I walk in the 

dark, seeking and straying, 

I am alone

like a starved calf. 

​

Only seen by myself I

let my body 

become something that 

shows the teeth of trauma. 

​

With others I find my 

teeth tremble and shattered,

with tongue not 

able to speak my body. 

​

Each pair of eyes

become a camera

directing new poses that

may elicit applause,

 

but once I see the photos, 

I see different beings

but never myself. If

illness elicits needed 

​

sympathy, then 

how can I myself find

in myself no 

sympathy for myself. 

​

Scrap the lilac wine.

Tonight I will drink to

the forebodings of 

what may come

 

tomorrow.