Kaleidoszkóp

You’re sharp and skin is prone to cleaving.
When I leave the table I feel 
a thousand tiny cuts, too small to bleed
but stung by air, salt and vinegar.
I’ve washed today already,
put on the soft armor,
painted a stronger face onto my face
and thought it well-protected.
I was wrong.

Take the elevator down—
endlessly, 
underground.
I’ll stay here
with pipes and mold and the roaches.
Who needs a face lifted to the light,
the taste of cool water,
or fleeting dark thoughts
drifting faster than clouds past the sun.
I’m protected here.
It’ll quiet,
it’ll darken,
and it won’t bleed.

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