it was too much today,
that neophyte din,
that spitting of ‘sickness’ from naive, shrewish lips.
their words gnarled and twisted, spider-creeping the room,
rings and things forcing forward,
glassless picture frames
jeering at me,
scenes of servile sterility–
my head crushed against the bathroom wall,
the silver ring i couldn’t understand–
and that white whiteness taunting me, goading me to spill myself,
crimson pools dying the tiles– impressionist pain–
white squares incarnadine, white veins releasing–
and then the yellow again, as before.
living my life under sniper light,
body bulging with toxins
they forced back inside.