I hang limp on the strings of my own frayed loose ends
doubled over and back again to taunt me
and I watch them cut into the flesh of my throat and my chest
in the reflection of the stilled grey sea that unfolds
before me:
numb and almost serene.
My apathy breeds a mangled hatred that I plunge, ever faithfully,
into my gut like the teeth of a knife, twisting, over and over
and if I pull it out there will be no blood
no color at all
an absence, a lack
just an empty hole.
In another world, I sit backstage in the dressing room of a circus
and the white paint on my face drips down and it’s because
I’m crying at the choking scent of daffodils thrown down at the stage
and the scream of laughter
and thunderclaps of applause
that follow my false acts.