I wonder what it has for me today, scratching beneath a loose surface,
reaching deep this time,
past the wrist, up to the elbow
for something beyond the dirt and the buried, sleeping
worms I regret waking -- I hate the way they move,
wriggling into the warm holes of my psyche.
This tombstone has witnessed my desecration before,
always silent, but I know judgment awaits.
I should keep it shut, think about putting up a door
with a lock and lose the key instead of
making a workout of moving this slippery stone.
But too late for me or my sanity -- one small push tonight,
and resurrected, they appear --
the slow beach days, the frantic Christmas mornings,
an evergreen in the foyer, dripping with pretense.
Days for miles along Manhattan Island, bright blinding lights,
nights spent whispering past the silent stroke of midnight
as adults stir on the opposite side of thin walls, begging us to sleep;
all of the memories driving me to the dull butter knife of self-hatred
twisting my guts into a Celtic knot.
Breathing hard, I arise, and the work is complete, my shame
left to spill and curdle like milk on a hot sidewalk,
seeping into the disturbed earth.
Blinking away the pain, I take my final breath slowly,
focusing on the rainbow of light glinting off of
my handful of fake pearls, the last bit of treasure I can glean
from this resting place.
My knees can hold me no more.
Consider this a mercy killing.