We’re going 39.76 miles per hour,
I know because I have asked my
Google assistant to convert it.
Angry God has bled while chopping
firewood for the blazing summer to come
and crackling thunder sends
the balcony doors wide open.
And leaning against the window,
mild nausea wants me to vomit
while twisted raindrops create
unexplored singularities—
I act like I’m hurt by my existence,
but only this time, it isn’t true.
***
It is obvious that crowds overwhelm me,
Absolutely not in a good way.
The chrysalis of my social anxiety
pours like it is cut by a scalpel,
a surgery blade drawn through
me by the aid of hundred eyes
that watch my lips move,
that see my hands shake
and my face burn.
It breaks my femurs,
ties me upside down and
I know it smells
like burning paper every time
my father’s
pain rupture’s the mark of 10.
***
I clench my fists when
12 joules per square centimeter
of laser kisses my scarred neck,
the only time
when pain comes in physical stings
and I don’t have to look for it inside
my mind, or my heart for that matter.
And If the pain begins, traversing
through the wounds
after the thorns dig into your
palms and you
bleed.
Your pain will have an outlet.
It’ll be kinder, physical and
apprehensive.
You’d not have to look where it
hurts.
It’ll respond to you as you flip
your hand.
I’m going 30.76 miles per hour,
and I’m about to fall asleep.
And my angry God, still bleeding,
doesn’t intend on stopping.
© Copyright 2018.