There are two things I’ve had closest to a fear
Needles,
And my own uncertainty
My insides wince when I see either or both
In the same room
Lit by the same gritty flame
Parked next to each other on the couch and gripping two glasses
Of mid shelf
They both look at me with a gaslit glare
They’re not there, or not in the way
At least
I know my moms arms are
The grass when it makes my back itch
A book when I flip it through like I know what I’m seeing.
Their eyes follow me to the back of my head and
The roots of my fiberglass brain
I haven’t showered, in days.