The Places I Disappear

I.

The firmament is concrete,
painted a darker gray
than the normal grey
of concrete
for a reason
that must have seemed
sensible,
at least for a time.

On the floor
is a bright rug,
a girl’s rug,
bordered in pink
and decorated
with green leaves
and purple spirals
and flowers of various sorts.

As is nearly always true,
I have on blue jeans
a black T-shirt (Alkaline Trio)
and while directly overhead
my family indulges their religion

I fall to my knees
then curl onto the rug
(empty suitcases and treadmills as my companions)
and weep.

At first it is the
silent salt,
dredged out of the darkness of mines,
that streams down
in well established trails
that terminate, for mere moments,
on the right corner of my mouth
and the slight hollow
(so pleasing to be kissed upon)
between the hinge of the jaw
and the area directly behind the ear.

Soon, instead of this
reserved dignity,
I am crying out
diminutive nothings
and my body is given over
to the paroxysms of my anguish
that steadily seems to be inevitable.

I roll myself into a ball
and am now choking, gagging
on the breath that
is as automatic as my sadness
and nearly as reviled.

My head, the malevolent malcontent
to blame for all of this,
begins to throb its bass drum beat
and after a time
I stand and give
the sodium
to the skeleton
centered on my shirt.
It is somewhat to the right
of my sternum, which, of course,
is a little out of place.
It is placed more in the sinister direction.
It is perhaps a happy accident,
as it will certainly make stabbing into
my heart
much more difficult
than if my body was made in
the mundane and proper way.

II.

Friends have sometimes
noticed that I take
trips to the bathroom
more frequently than is typical.
I assume that they do not know
the cause of my absences,
but perhaps they are merely being kind.

I can splash some water on my face
and everything is the same again.
I have had bloodshot eyes for my whole life,
at first from allergies.
I have just discovered
by way of a query into my magnificent memory
that I have probably cried
in every bathroom that
I’ve been in
more than three times.

Maybe it is just that no one pays attention.

Though I like to imagine that I am clever
it may be that I simply
do not understand anything at all.
I swear I’ll get that boulder
to the top before next I sleep.