I am skilled in the art of the bitter self-slur.
Coward, selfish, ugly, weak,
For now, these are my truths.
I blend them, drink them in,
They make me thin.
I am myself. These are my choices,
I direct rage inwards, flee non-sanctuary,
Take refuge in the trees, and there, a black-eyed dog
bares his teeth and threatens, but I let him,
I pet him. His tongue is rough, and grazes me,
I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.