A college thought-of-once
conducted my palmistry
and for reasons unknown
grabbed my left wrist
like a handle all while
prodding my life, head,
and fate lines quite liberally.
brushing my thumb for effect—that
I was long bent on death,
I was waiting for something,
I, supposedly, feared markedly.
you seem afraid of everything.
I test the sore digits of splayed hands
having apparently fist fought my
apartment, or so purpled
knuckles imply, and I lost,
or so spoiled knees, swelled shoulders
admit at the slightest movement.
I grasp the neck of the half-bottle,
soon too dizzy to wave-away listed fear,
what I’m so bent upon, and this wait.
Whatever it was...thoughts, right—everything.
Let’s pretend I’ll rouse at sundown
with some semblance of forward.
I short-cut myself out of certain
panic and attack with sudden
comatose, blackout for breakfast.
I ball my body into a fist.