It’s angry.

Trapped like some throbbing engine locked in a gear too low with the clutch just a hair too far in

Revving, spinning, frictionless

Don’t know whether to push to the floor or spring clear

Either way it’s not going

Anything would be too late, as the honking starts

But it’s just in my head, senses are always clear

Mercifully

I stand at the mirror, my eyes stare back through me and then focus cuts a needle path through my skull

I flinch at the onslaught of jarring hands, one frame a second spliced into the third eye, but there’s no shards, not a ripple

Not there.

But it pounds anyway

From the pump to the carotid to the gray to the jugular to the pump to the to the carotid to the gray to the jugular to the pump

Around it pounds past ears that never lie, eyes that never betray, only the gray

The heat on my thighs shines back at me, keys click under my fingers in fits and starts

The blue mumbles across the room

And she is beneath the basement and is he is pressed to the window, with pictures for eyes and words for fingers

I haven’t had a paper cut in years

I feel it.

Again the faithful servants of reality report

But it’s still pounding

Is it strong enough

Fuchsia bells glow barely enough, too much

The comforter used to be enough, burrito wrapped hot and sweating, panting

But powdered hands slid into the gray wrinkles- painted black and slick

And I must protect the left

As I stare gape-eyed at the shocking rose tinted nothing

Still nothing

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

I do it to myself...