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Molded To Ache

By Kael Knoxton Martin

He drives up to me on the street,
asks for my name, but I’m cycling through names at the moment,
spinning myself around in perpetual impact
like some sad cheap carnival ride crushed underneath
the weight of the frankenme, and I don’t know what to tell him.
I could tell him the truth: son of Ken, and born of the fire,
or I could tell him the truth: I’ve got too many names,
like bites on my legs from the nights I begged
to stay outside like a dog, and if you look at me long enough,
my downfall will be blatant: I’ve got too many fingers stained by
the blackberry patch, too many hauntings
spread through my blood like the illness that killed him. I’m just not worth it, so he drives away.
I’m not young enough
anymore. I haven’t been finished.

I’m schizophrenic at the age of twenty-one,
but they don’t catch it in time; it has rendered my writing septic,
and the imagery is still a bit off. I’m taking my pills, I promise.
I don’t know how to do anything else. I like to think of myself
as a capsule, anyway, dumping my overwhelmed essence
right into his stomach by force
and not even feeling guilty about it. Then my thoughts disperse,
rush up to his brain, form a bodily dependence
on our agony, and through his vision I witness
the grave I have not escaped: my writing
still doesn’t make sense.

It just doesn’t land.