/My Own Heart
Forcing a smile, straining
To conjure stomach butterflies,
So they would stop staring.
I discovered I could
Not create that which is only
Converted, and I could not
Convert that which has never been
Twine suspends me in a frame.
It punctures my skin
An intention is something that negates
The action. It turns epidemic
Into individual and enables
I fear on occasion
That the car will stop
Too late, and snap my bones
Into slivers before driving away.
And there will be no one around to run
A pen across paper to record the words
Of the license plate.
Each night when the clouds hide
The only moon we have, I cry
And think that I won some cosmic lottery,
Like in that story. What is the name
Of that disorder you have?
What are the odds of that
Particular brand of broken?