Combat debris

Combat debris


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.




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