don’t tell me to open up, to join in;
don’t tell me i’m no fun, killjoy, wet
blanket, spoilsport —

maybe instead consider for a second
(roll the thought from palm to palm,
measure its weight)
that the things that make your body
sing and vibrate with joy and
warm lightning

are the same things that twist the
restless branches of my veins into
knots and drown my brain in
frigid paranoia;
make an earthquake in the bones
of my hands and birth live spiders
in my gut, billions, creeping
upwards and all over
my insides,
blocking my windpipe.