It persists; this
wound this ache, this
sense of weight gravity pulling
me toward the center…
this black hole of
dense hatred consuming
everything

and I misunderstand
thinking it is me
it is not

I look inward
seeing what I don’t understand
a dark thing throbbing
slowly expanding
blackness with no light, a
rotating funnel
where sympathy falls

and I misunderstand
thinking it is me
it is not

it’s a new thing placed…by
fear or pain or disgrace or
shame…looking
far too much alike
too much me
too much what I imagine feel see
think; in mirrors

and I misunderstand
thinking it is me
it is not

the wound is temporary; like
life is fleeting
like pain is perception
knowing it is not me, it is
transition
movement toward, away
forgotten now

and I misunderstand
thinking it is me
it is not

the deep hole will occasionally
return
the dark funnel
a rotating descent
but now I understand
thinking it is me
it is not