My mind cramps into a tight fetal coil.
I bend floor-ward, hugging knees to ribs.
My brain whips to spin cycle and I choke a wail.
I stand and shuffle to an intersection of walls, an inside
90-degree safe harbor where the drywall is cool and embowering.
I touch the smooth surfaces with hands of the emotionally blind.
The blades are slicing into my mind—again—sharp and cutting.
I recall their birth 40 years before, how I felt them then as
thick ropes of scar, braided, across the inside of my face,
through both eyes—thick and opaque, forcing me to know
a disfigured world, while I looked faultlessly whole: the model
of American man, mirrors full of shaved, brushed, air-dried me.
Sometimes when I’m alone in the still dark,
the mirrors shards again and I choke on salty tears.