plea for practicality

I wish my false expectations
grew visibly out of my skin
like ridges or horns.
If only the river that
sweeps away my imagination
ran through my blood, so that
if I sliced open my veins, my
imagination would spill out
like water from Jesus’s side.
I wish my fantasies were
stronger than the pooling
clot of shame beneath my ribs.
There is no stopping it, no
plug no plaster no tape no
insult powerful enough to
make this indomitable hope
falter. Why can’t it let
my life unfold however it
has been predestined? And why
do I cling to the thought that
my future will somehow evolve
into a utopia in which my
daydreams blend seamless into
my days?
There’s a vision of myself
made wholly out of heaven’s
light. She walks on glass
above her earthbound shell.
She’s an optimist. She’s
immortal. She’s beautiful.
She is blessed with
the gift of discernment
between good and evil. She has
everything she’s ever wanted.
Her world is my hallucination.
If I could touch her, I would
rip her overweening heart out
with my hands.

no image is disgusting enough to describe me

in my head, everything out of my mouth is clumsy.

every tremor calls out insecurity, and I think that my arms should be
superglued together behind my back
to reduce the pathetic radiance of my body.

I’ve had images before
of carving out the ridges of my skin
with a knife
dig past pores filled with puss and blood dripping from my pimples
to reach whatever lies beneath that is worthy
of a hand caressing my cheek.
I have considered the fat encasing my muscles
broiling and bubbling and oozing out of my pores
and I have wondered if it were possible
to bash my spine against a wall until it stood straight
between my bones.

I’ve hoped I could keep silent for the rest of my life
so no one would hear the 12-year-old-boy pitch of my trying-too-hard voice.
nothing I could say to anyone is important enough
to haunt them with this sound.

these things are ridiculous, these wishes
to become numb from my fingertips in
or to press my body down into the dirt until I
am enveloped by the earth.

I don’t know if I am
obsessed with myself, or if
I loathe myself.
I guess it’s both.

should I speak until
I don’t want to rip my chest open with my fingernails
just because a social interaction did not go as planned?
or should I never speak again?

I wonder if I could ever accept myself
or if that would be overlooking the truth of what a worm I am,
what a pathetic fucking ragged dog I am,
if when I feel confident it’s only subconscious ignorance of my disgrace.

I am insane.
I am writhing and ugly and out of my mind.