Written September 7, 2010


My dear Marcel, I fear my mind has mangled
your words into a horrible, twisted monstrosity.

“was my thought…
my aim was turning inward.”

How diseased must be a brain to turn your muses
into fuel for an unhealthy desire?

I am not so far lost as not to be saved,
but the new fears it brings outweigh the old
that prevented a complete collapse of “normalcy”…

A thread encircles my ordinary waist,
braiding thicker and stronger every day,
and I can’t take the constant ravel-unravel.

I’m not sick enough,
yet the pivotal point
may have my footsteps on it.

‘Cause I can’t
do anything
drowning in shame.

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