you are not yet
a welcome passenger -
less like a scar that becomes opalescent,
a trinket of survival,

and more like an embarrassing disease.
i stay inside on the days you show up worst,
when i cannot hide you.

i become a self contained weather system
in my bedroom -
my fury and shame
condensating on the window,
the sadness fracturing my floorboards,
the sadness fracturing my skin.
outside, you are quiet

and therefore unnoticed.
convincing people you exist is like
being a conspiracy theorist
in a room of skeptics:
they have not seen me

thrashing and formless, floating to ceilings
and sinking below floors, and they
have not seen you
beckoning to the men,
displaying hollowness
as if it could substitute for lust,

and they have not seen
the dark ages of our history, the pills
the blood the hands
that hold me open and empty.
but

your ****** threats amount to nothing
because i always find a way to outsmart you.
and i am
living
living
living
painfully and unsteadily

in spite of you
and with you.