I wish I could only see the graces,
yet I find myself again
wearing wig and toge
sticking
to the foibles, like a fruit fly
captive in the unfair yellowness
of a trap.
My mania, an emotional capacitance,
oracular dynamic,
chisels dark, hostile shadows,
lurking among thoughts,
my most intimate vicinity.
I can feel them MacGyvering
for me, the self-fulfilling prophecy
I dictate inspired by
your lackadaisical absence.
My reactivity, a self-made contraption:
unnecessary,
complicated,
unsafe.
May I find the strength to grovel
through the valley of pride.
I’ll pacify my embittered spirit
sweating out a poisonous compulsion
left behind drop by drop,
fearing what color they’ll turn
if I look back.