i lie

writing pain,
like watching
scalpel slice soft flesh,
fascinates;
warm liquid oozing
surface-ward
surface-word
in the direction
of consciousness
making visible
the unpalatable
knowledge of weakness
of having not overcome
fear
even in the absence
of danger

my conceit
thinks me strong,
pats me on the back
and cries “skol!”

smiling,
i clink the chalice
and watch a spider vein
traverse the once-clear
skin of glass;
never mind
i have other skins,
a skein of catgut
and a needle

i lie,
i lie,
there’s only this one,
and i’m not done with it
yet

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