this truth is without luster: i am
something is shiftless, pressuring
the self into irreparable
where rejections are sacred. new languages
manifest themselves there,
picked and picked
until only bareness remains.
it forgot its place until
the very second it was the last thing left- this moment,
it is obvious to me, is the beginning of death-
overzealous to interpret "real" movement.
hush-hush about what "real" means to itself-
real being the impossible visualization.
it isn't home. it is not a thing of my home.
i am not ready to step out
on my own.
this immune system believes in weakness.
still i'm not gone.
god, god, leave me alone.