Eventually my memory
will lament
in daydreams
//:.
that my pride
was dissolving in my bed,
//:.
that my solace
was pacing vehemently in my head,
//:.
that my martyrdom
was telling me I may recover,
//:.
that my return
was murmuring softly,
//:.
that my fury
was invading my hiding door,
//:.
that my frenzy
was stabbing at my scalp,
//:.

and perhaps my memory
will stutter
as always,
//:.


and I can stack my scabs again.

hair holes

As if bound 
and chained 
to a rock 
in the middle 
of a vast, hot 
desert, 
I wait; 
Praying for
a salvation 
which might 
come eventually...
*...Maybe.*