It's at night that my heart swells
like deep waters and in the morn
I draw them out with my pen.
It's a sweet unrest until, unexpectedly,
it turns to experiment (or spectacle) like I'm some
specimen where someone clangs with
small instruments and custom keys to see what's
really inside and it's like I'm on the brink
of death by the mere thought that someone
will see-- that I will see...
Is someone laughing inside, watching me watch me?
The dissection begins: Stick. Churn.
Urgent: Can someone please clean this up?
Quickly? I say. But what I really mean is
Can someone put this back together the way it was?
I wait, breathing heavy, then heavier
because I know it cannot be done.
I want to panic, but I know it won't get me
anywhere. So I scoop up the remains.
I am sure I'll never be the shape and shades
of before, and it frightens me.
And yet
each time I write,
it happens all over again:
My seemingly whole self
becomes fragments, and pieces of me
remold to new forms... I am not sure I am
anymore complete than I was before it all began.
Art by Miles Johnston
