April 26

“disorder”

I am used to having blood pinched
beneath my fingernails,
rusting my sleeves,
and streaked across my tongue;
I know exactly what the elixir of
anxiety and boredom
tastes like:
beer, pennies, and my own
inability
to stop.

April 9 (poem 8)

"confessions in three parts"

1. doorknobs make me nervous
I can feel their afterimages on my palms
like ghosts.

2. when my stomach lionmouths
I imagine my thoracic cavity as an ice cave
it helps me breathe clear.

3. my panic attacks do not trigger the
most sensitive of sonographs;
I am good at masks.