She scared the loneliness in herself
with a homemade Loch Ness--
a monster daydreaming a lake
to create a landborne nightmare.
Each pill was inexplicable. It
hurt to have a head with a
childhood, so she crunched
five or six between her teeth
per day to be flowingly adult
and headless. People are allergens,
with their opinions and desire
to fix things. But what happens
when the hum that binds your
arms and legs and torso and
mental weather together
is also a fatal irritant? Until
you're there and nowhere else
but always elsewhere and
no one, abandoned on the
couch in the middle of the
lightless afternoon, looking at
your hands that open before you,
covered in disappearing hives?
If only sitting there were enough
to make her truthful (and it is).
The people who look at her
and see her and even more than
that, would know who
they were holding when they
put their arms around her.
And so would she. That even
pain is pure and wonderful.
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