if all i ever wrote, was a mountain of hurt
well, it would be a tall mountain indeed

i would climb it to the top, the point
and the point would tell me all along there had been a point

and at this point, where there had been a point,
i would give my hurt away. to see all there is to see
and just let it be

did it work?
I give a useless tug on my skin, done to reassure me
instead it reaffirms to me:

I am, again, inconsolable.

is the mask I wear today sealed on tight? too tight?
does it hurt to pretend so much?

does it seem clear to anyone else that there are loose ends I've yet to tend to? backdoors I've overlooked?
transparencies?    can they see through me?

I bare my teeth. canines, canines from the days of carnivores.
am I that carnivore? in my genes I am.

and in practice?

inconsolable, uncontrollable
barely a threat in her form.

this question comes to me under many guises:
an old man asking me: are you that of practice or are you that of genes?
a professor lecturing: are you that of cultivated identity or that of inherited form?

my concerned friends crying:
who are you?
is your mask anything like you?

and then i wake.
it's a terror turned nightly chorus.
recurring nightmares, doctors offer.

i admit i know the content of my dreams to be unfounded:
in life there are no physical masks that do the jobs my terrors depict.
no veil to hide the contours of each flawed personality, no mask to others, just me, weeping-in-the-bathroom, never-myself me

and those attempted favours to be like one another
i'll be like you so you'll like me
i'll like you because i'm like you

so the body charges on in this society like a mirror
cross your left leg when she crosses her right, fold your arms when she's folded hers, raise your hand to say hello, raise your hand to say goodbye

a kiss on the right cheek, a kiss on the left, one more on the left
this is how you show love and a greeting all at once

fold your arms over each other, this is sympathy, this is greeting, do you take comfort in this too?

so you learn to speak with your arms, and you learn to speak with your legs, and you learn to speak with your face, and you learn to speak with your head.

soon your eyes are apprentices of acquaintances, learning to borrow looks like library books, take on others' stories like they've read them end to end.

so in the middle of this process you learn to effectively say:
i see you, i hear you, i perceive you.

and in these attempted favours, at the end of your night terrors, is the parrot that they want to see. the parrot that you argue, can't really be me.

i looked into you
familiar now, your glowing face, now that we've spent 35 summer days in each other's space
if i left now, every part of me would contain a trace
and no red flags i see
i say this
as hard as i believed

i confess i am still learning
every day about the nuances
what you like to do, what you don't like to do, what you used to like to do
but don't like to do anymore

and how i can be one of those things that you like to do
as hard as i believe

before the hinges of the doors that I built
    to block naught else but
     all else
loosened

i thought of sturdiness and i felt its bliss
but weren't, they weren't, weren't, they weren't

in the come of a whisper
arrived in darkness, no wind to tell the direction
a good sound carrier to me
or a benevolent earsore

come sound warn to watch
as door hinge slid in and gave all out
and all  panic   that  what thought let subside
except  a foreign trust
well hold this foreign trust I have no familiar trust
let defense begin  let offense ******


but sustenance and fragile beginning
soft creak creep
like novice
chimney sweep
as dulled threat lay awaiting
in alternate entry
in wind rolling
in snow freezing
but staying all the same

how long must i
drag my bones
across these
lukewarm
monotonous
coals,
i wondered
as i loaded
the dryer
with white
clothes

Touch the sky with me
and we can fly, fly, fly
away from these places,
wrong faces, all the traces
of the spaces we created
between our lonely hearts
and forgotten minds;
the parts of us that shouldn't exist
crying in their cavernous
pinholes, echoing
and rupturing in feeling
through the waves of something
more, something undeniable
and true. The pinprick
in which my emotions
are contained
is gargling with a blood
that pours black yet,
as it trickles through
me, I can feel it restoring beauty
to the yellowed valleys of my skin.