Why am I here?
Two am and I'm wide awake,
only the light from the computer screen
like the last three nights,
except tonight
it's youtube making noise
rather than friends,
it's sandpaper and pocket knives hurting
rather than sentiment and memories,
it's terror causing tremors in my hands
rather than sleepiness.

Why am I here?
42 days without a scratch
(from myself; only bruises)
and now I need to wear long socks again,
let people think I'm incapable
of bathing the cat with any degree of control,
hope no one's had their coffee
when they see me first thing in the morning.

Why am I here?
Just the thought of sentiment
sends me reeling
and there it is in black ink,
untidy scrawl,
only instead of a last-hope plea
it's a Valentine's card,
instead of "mashiara" (my lost love)
I'm a propper significant other,
instead of an old painted luck charm
it's a Hallmark card that still smells of printing press.

Why am I here?
Two weeks now
and I want to be done
with the constant attention that closes in,
threatens to expose my torments
to people I'd rather protect
only this time
I'll cease to respond
rather than fight over it,
I'll isolate myself from the world
rather than  pretend that I want to,
I'll die
rather than watch the world unravel before me.

Why am I here?