recovery

The gratification of
erasing false starts
finds you just as unravelled as
any other pleasure

tingling fingers
itching, frozen, honey icicles
threatening to drip over
all of your opus, your corpus, like
naughty candle wax

with every heartbeat he didn't call
you grew a little older and one foot
inched carefully in front of the other
along the slick ice of despondency

what gets elided in the viscosity
is the rigmarole of feeling
dull feeling

No alarms and no surprises

Change is the nature of this fractal self, modulation
to the point that I no longer recognize the real,
no longer distinguish it from the accoutrements I've grown for
the benefit of those who don't give a shit
and when these appendages take on a life of their own
and cease to become vestigial, enigmatic, but essential
for those who love me for what was never organic but
only pruned, manicured, I am but a structure of feeling
a constructed other ready for consumption

Maybe this is the point of a low birth as an empty womb

Privilege, an unchanging self, you are unfathomable
And no less green plastic fibers on a fake tree than I

We are all covered in the maya of ishwara

Steel wires

If your tendrils contracted
my heart would be shredded.
Am I your rhizome too?