In the privacy of this parchment
I am left to withdraw
If I tried to chronicle the frequency of my
Inadequacy the fruit of my diagnosis
Would roll over and mold.
I keep pieces of myself, spare parts
To trace, outline their fragile sigils
I bear down harshly
Pierce the skin until I can
Smell the wound
Like flesh left too long in the sun.
I live so that it burns – the kind that
Peaks off in intricate sheets
Layers of static
My interpreters on the fritz.
Truth Scerum 