vanity. yet inward hate,
that chokes out joy
inside this state.
i chide, chew at my
limbs and face
with every word,
each sound i make.
can’t be consoled,
or reasoned with,
an invisible shiv
is in my ribs.
invisible feet
kick at my shins,
a prod, like God,
to end my sins.
so end it then?
is this the drift?
a thought, unstopped
a nudge, a hint?
a splash of wrath
inside a gift?
and can i bite the hand
by which it’s sent?

-m.p. 09/11/2015