Upon Wilted Pages

of few things I am certain.


is that somewhere between the pops and crackles and tiny clicks
of the record player's needle on tired midnight vinyl,
my name is whispered--
perhaps buried underneath the jumbled notes
of eighties synthesizers,
or from within the drum barrel
of a pop-rock icon.


is that my body is a graveyard
for derelict scabs and bruises
that have nowhere to go
but upon the skin of an anemic teenage girl.
freckles and scabs and bulging veins
decorate my ivory-colored epidermis
like sad, twinkling constellations.


sometimes life makes me feel a bit sociopathic.
shamefully I admit
that I did not weep
when I watched Schindler's List.
tears weren't perched behind my eyelids
and my cheeks weren't a shade redder than usual
and dark glossy eyes didn't flicker from the screen
in fear of compromising the fragile structure
on which the eggshell concept of "good"
is balanced.


I possess a degree of stoicism--
unwavering, stony, cold against rosy flesh--
that is socially unacceptable,
because my emotional numbness
far surpasses
any capacity for empathy.
I am not proud
that I am alarmed when I feel my heart swell.
it is not a good character trait.


I am certain
of the uncertainty
which plagues my existence
like the spidery fingers of Death,
and my reaching desire
for definitive parameters
in which I may,
quietly and contentedly,
confine myself forever.

This poem is about: 



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