tomorrow i will lie--
biding my time
somewhat precocious
and something else
pathetic.
i will wriggle about
itching all over
feeling my muscles
flexing against my skin,
but tonight I deem
it has to be better
than that walking death.
in the dark
and the cold
which is eternal
to me now,
i know i cannot bear
the humiliation
of existing in there--
with them.
I suffer this shame
pathetically,
and then again,
knowing that's true,
i'm all the more ashamed
and tremble even
deeper.
i can't have it--
any of it.
i don't know how.
in my mind i see
that i could
take it in my hands,
but i clutch the roots
of my weakened
and innocent hair
tightly--balled up
in my fists.
poor things, that hair
i feel it indefinitely.
but it's nothing
compared to this fear--
lying in wait,
and casting itself
over me
like a mourning veil.
in the middle of the night
it feels all right
but then tomorrow
morning
