I could be a chrysanthemum
in the hands of a child
or a bronze bell
sitting stupefied in the shrine
of any number of saints.
But I am more like an unshakeable ferocity
that forms itself again and again
in the jutting of hips
and the gnashing of teeth.
My emotions are vengeful spirits,
torches burning blue
in the fanatical condolence
that is sleep.
A heart which is part stomach,
a pelvis gutted like a Jack-O-Lantern,
a fan of hands which sweep away
the remains of a day
that ended on a sour note.
Happiness is rage.
Sorrow is a kind of seething hatred.
Intimacy can only be found in softness.
To overcome me
is to breach the invertebrate shell.
It is the palest of deaths.
I have given birth to infinities
and to a thousand screeching indignities.
The waves are restless about me.
I travel beneath them
like a hunter whose only weapons
are that which can reasonably fit inside the body.
Blood, bones, and organs.
Vulnerability cannot be extinguished.
It is the best and worst of what a man can be
and the sharpest of blades.
I have tasted and tortured.
I have walked up the wall
and back down again
without a sense
of where I am going.