It would be easier, I think,
if my nerves were not so jittery,
wriggling under my skin
like small electric shocks

every time I nervously approach
an unknown thing,
a child handed a glossy new toy.
Is this how it is meant to be?

So young, so young,
life full with gaudy possibilities
at the arrival of another birthday,
presents losing their allure,

the rattling mystery beneath the paper,
my sweet cluster of friends
revving off into the distance
and I am left to wonder

who will fill the white, sad gaps.
I see you, I remember.
I see you, I remember you too.
A lengthy list splattered with letters,

wiry and black like a belch of string.
There is only so much
one person can do
when their hands are ravaged

by a peculiar numbness,
when their syllables and sentences
begin to stick together,
form a blood-red thick lake.