And the worst thing is,
    I muttered to my right thumb’s torn cuticle,

The Absolute Very Worst Thing In the History of the Universe is
    My tongue flounders to find
    what I want to say.
    So I say,
I’m talking to myself.
    I bite the cuticle,
    and it stings in that way
    that somehow makes me want to do it again.

The Absolute Very Worst Thing in the History of the Universe is
   that I don’t know.
   I don’t know what I want,
   I mean.

The Absolute Very Worst Thing in the History of the Universe is
    to have a frozen skeleton,
    I sample, though I’m not quite sure
     what I mean to mean.
    
    To have these metal fish-hooks
      snagged in my skin,
      one pulling north, the other dragging south.
      You see?

   To keep digging holes and sowing seeds
      that I have no idea what they’ll grow to be
      (pumpkins or daisies
      or something awful.  Like beets.)

but I’m blistered and there’s sweat that stings my slivered palms (not in the good way) but I keep digging and digging and I can’t stop because someone says I have to move forward, forward, forward, but really I’m just moving in circles,  and I’m not doing anything but something, and what is the point, in that, really?

But the worst thing is,
    that knowing that to be happy,
    and not even like a kid,
    beaming, triumphantly holding his lost tooth up in the air,
                (I’ve given up on that)
    but in the,
                I suppose I can sleep at night
                way,
                (these days, I apparently talk to myself instead,)  

The worst thing is
      knowing that to feel warm,
      to feel things,
      Something drags me forward,
               in my stupid shoes that make me hobble instead of walk,


I must keep moving forward
in spite of
the shade of a ghost,

     that kisses the hollow of my neck
     traces his fingers down my spine
     and whispers,

you’re getting tired.
     Come lie down with me.

he would sit in his room
and draw space ships
that could only be described
as something from star wars
or star trek

and he'd do geometry on the floor
his school books scattered
and punk music
would be playing on his
boom box

game informers stacked high
in tens and twenties
all over his bookcase
cozy against star wars
and hardy boys

the wood frame bed
simple and pure
until tainted by a name
of his first love
scratched in with passion
and heartbreak

he lied quite often
and was a sore loser
his mood usually consisted of
being short fused
and even more short fused

and then he moved
left for good
not visiting for another three years
and then three more after that
each time
he gets older
and less of the thirteen year old
i had known
when he lived
at home