this is a lot like when i was younger,
i started corralling the pieces
of malformed intelligence into a single pen—
they stood together an ugly family
transfixed by their own lies to one another
and i hated them for it, and i hated myself
for not realizing sooner that santa claus
wasn’t real.

now to ponder: i might have missed more.
my life perhaps a schizophrenic mishap.
reality out of question, my touch
seems fine, nerves mostly intact—
except that one place that’s quite numb:
sometimes my fingers trace the deep pale scar
in a lemniscate fashion, enjoying my eroticism
of not feeling there and feeling here—
concurrent togetherness of lonely synapses.

this i cannot shake, my tedious self-
tantalization; i have spiked my own drink,
ether trickles down my throat until
i’m fully satisfied:
i’m feeling more nothing than before:
except i should’ve known sooner.