my days are spent
staring blankly at
screens and walls
and people and
pages, and with
my unseeing eyes
i start to wonder:

am i present?

my existence feels
detached from my
corporeal form. if
someone tried to
touch me, perhaps
their hand would
go right through.

my body does not
feel real or solid or
here. i’ve become
only my thoughts
and my inability to
feel anything at all.

although i know
that i am indeed
real and tangible,
my connection to
the universe feels
slight. this seems
like perhaps it is
a reverse phantom
sensation, in which,
despite my weight,
i am now a ghost.



Red Wine

would you be willing to trade your Malbec
and Rioja for a different red—
what was it? a Zinfandel?—
and split the bottle with me,
as I cry into a stump,
with all my clothes,
and without—
getting hurt.



Take Back the Night

i want to take back the night
  five years after the theft
     of my trust.

you pulled the wool from my eyes
  and the clasp off my spine.
i was an imperfect victim,
  and became a rag doll.

  if i were stronger,
maybe i could have
     kept you out.

i can't take back my silence.

but i can take back
  my life.