Act I.
Eventually your fingers will be the gauge of your disposition
Your knuckles the bearer of your sins.
Soldiers have amputated arms, amputated legs.
You have translucent skin brought about by wounds which never seem to heal.
People would notice how your nails are always trimmed,
almost invisible.
You tell them it’s because you want to keep things clean.
If only they knew how much.
You keep your neatly trimmed fingernails crossed behind your back,
Hoping they don’t find out.
Act II.
Eventually you will notice yourself smiling less and less,
And visits to the dentist result to baffling observations.
Your teeth, they weren’t this bad before.
Sometimes laughing hurts,
Talking silently uncomfortable.
You disguise discomfort with imperceptible smirks,
Curt nods,
Impassioned shakes of heads.
On particularly bad days,
You find yourself tasting rust.
Act III.
Eventually you will wake up at 3 AM
Cold sweat trickling down your face,
You mistake them for tears or you don’t.
You were thrown in an ice bath while you slept.
It will take you long minutes
To wipe dry the Pacific forming in every available crevice.
You are still shivering from the Somnus winter.
Mornings will translate to lying on your side,
and pinching yourself in places.
Hopeful that the murder in your stomach
will be silenced by the vibratto of your wails.
Act IV.
Eventually you will look for expensive dishes
Food you will not want to waste.
You will want more than their ephemeral taste
lasting on your tongue,
quickly masked by acid,
salted with tears unintentionally shed,
an unavailable consequence of your anatomy.
They placed your tear ducts too close to your throat.
Act V.
Eventually growing old will be a chronological reversal.
You will forget the last time you woke up
to panties soaked in blood.
Every ruby red drop a cause for celebration.
You will stroke the hair on your head,
feeling cornstalks heated by the afternoon sun,
previously freshly woven abaca —
soft but hard, gentle to touch.
Act VI.
Eventually you will wake up and maybe the sun is up,
shining through your window in a way not entirely unbearable.
You will unthinkingly wrap your palm around your throat,
the other hand slowly sliding to your stomach,
finding a comfortable space.
Your throat tightens,
your breath hitches,
your eyes close.
Somewhere a cock is crowing.
You will think to yourself,
maybe not today.
On good days, you win.
Of perpetual finds 