moments of fierce exposure

moments, of fierce exposure


those moments, of fierce exposure (just after, unnoticed,
some common word unlocks the small, jeweled box full
of memories' secrets i keep with me), allowing moths and little fears
to flutter-up), demand a certain dedication to the task at hand;
and with all the choking blood, (spilt-full of
hormones meant for ancient stalking and chasing),
bunch up in my throat; and the sheer,
detached-wonder, of watching myself
set up the very-same-sucker-punch-that-lost
me-the-title-in-the-first-place; and with, the
rock-sinking hole in my guts, as you
step in close, and whispering, (just one last time,
and quite firmly, actually) report, "oh, i don't listen
to my heart anymore, it just hasn't worked for me", well,
.
the rage
(burning free, at the well-head) and humiliation
(just) make me laugh, out loud
(like a pratfall i've seen, in a silent movie, at least
one hundred times before, but roar at, just the same)
.
and, now,
the sting has gone out of the skin, and only the
bone-anguish of memory is left; a sort of small
festering soreness, one never quite sees,
but can feel, at any moment,
like a stolen tooth,
(if only with the tip of my inner tongue) remains.