glove bark

A regime devoted to time
embodied in the colour of a wall or running
repeatedly into yourself
spattering thighs; knee-deep in lard
breath-by-breath attack
starving for a digital release I
am accurate – moot musculature –
diligently flowing
outward away from posterity whipped
into relief the texture of
beaten leather;
suction cups, monster artists stuck to myriad
bathroom floors as a naïve
defence against anxiety –
Billie Holliday vox
tremors soaked in deep red quiet amid
the itchy knife
of emotional compromise –
inventories of abstracted
feeling burned into grids as markers of
claustrophobic unlovability, which
worn as a crown demands
the question
why am I here –
what did my tidy heart want
to witness?