not a poem.

Does it ever happen to you where you are a blank slate
you
are waiting to be written on, for someone to come and write on you
to feel something besides the burning in your skull
the dull rhythmic pounding
and the stare of basilisks
stone stare medusa, from your eyes backwards
mind of stone
does it ever happen to you where you are pulsing yourself
music pulsing
to match the tectonic shifting in your head
you see, I didn't start this out a poem--
but when it turns into
something
then you are glad to strip away with rasps
grate away with pills
scrub away whatever makes you weak--you see because
blood has no place in stone
but the cracking is driving you insane.

Somewhere I know there should be a calling, a
yelling, a screaming, a 'stop'
a 'don't'
but it's quieted by the stare of 'do'
'do what you have to'
it's always a
'do what you have to'
a
'do what needs to be done.'

Failure is not an option,
not here.