You spit, splatter Your eyelashes
against his cheeks, You rub Your forehead
on her wall holding poison in Your hands,
he should cower, but does not, she should
not turnaroundyellscreamshoutkickcry
but does.

You hold Yourself
like Your family have disowned You
for the fifty eighth time and grin into doors
at how sad you can be.  You wash dinner plates
one a time and Your chests pour out bubbles.

i often replace You with a DoubleYou to show You
how big these things can seem when you hold two telescopes
to the map on your thigh and calculate carefully
where the pain will end up. Not in Your feet,
or chest, not in Your skull or pinky fingers
but in a dinning room table where Your mother eats
from soup bowls and Your father pets Your dog
and on a silver platter in the middle, Your brother
and sisters stab a fork into Your heart.