Something is wrong with me.
It could have been all those lines fiercely dug
in the proverbial sand that I laughingly
crossed with exaggerated giant steps,
daring to walk up to God Himself
and yank the stick away...
but something happened, and I don't feel,
even though I am completely filled,
and I connect the dots automatically,
neatly stack empty gestures of social protocol
like a well-oiled machine of convention,
but something is corrupt within.
Last night I dreamed of killing cats
just to hold their furs flat against my face
without the annoying purr or bones.
There is another line ahead of me
that I know I shouldn't cross, but boredom
keeps moving me like a renegade chess piece
that is steadily closing in, and I don't see
the black and white, and I don't care for
lose or win, and I don't zig-zag left or right,
I just keep moving straight ahead...
I prefer my coffee black. He wastes time
with cream and sugar and spoons, and stirring.
He wastes words talking about the morning
as if he's not alone. I like him better in the dark,
cuffed and groaning. I barely know him
when the lights are on.
Something is wrong in me: I'm ticking...
Can't you hear it? In the meat below my freckles,
in the muscle and marrow of my bones...
The cup I hold is steady.
My face never twitches.
But the pendulum is swinging in my brain,
and I know it won't be long...
He points to some misty place across the lake,
where deer sometimes emerge from the forest.
He's heard a panther scream in the night;
in the fall, owls nest near his roof.
I read his ticker taped narrative in my brain
while his voice drones, then he pulls me
against him, and breathes into me
"I could get used to you."
I wonder vaguely what his skin would feel like
flat against my face
without the annoying purr