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.