A Diagnosis

Posted by on Sep 21, 2018 in Crimes of Poetry | 0 comments



I am outline

This pressure-out is nearly as big as my skin

There is no room for sympathy between.

I am the aura

And not the core

I am a translucent edge

As seen with scam X-ray glasses from a comic book ad

I live here, in this outer red shift

Forced radial by energy felt as mass


She cannot regulate her emotions

(said some sleek doctor)

Her nerves are too close to the surface

(said my grandmother, who was a psychiatric nurse)


My nerves are a spring-steel coil

Snapping restraints in an urgent leap for circumference


I am trying to tell you, all you real people,

That my skin is strung over this moment right now

Over motion more resistant than matter

And I envy you your fine and personal skeletons.

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