Against the Addiction

About this thing filling up the shiny glittery real: 
Instead of the embrace, 
act for a living 
and peel back to the box.

Something is wonderful and working.
Something is hard and waiting.
Something is, and without a bow.

There’s an afterimage of you 
after the glare.
Don’t blink now.
There’s an afterimage 
in your own eyes.
No one can deny 
inside a mirror. 

This is no time to stop
to fret the ribbon.
There is still time.
Trace it to the knot 
and twine your fingers.

You remember the waiting thing: 
Inside, a stale trick 
or a mule heart.
This was always going to be 
the decision.
This will always be
the choice,
until the twisted arcs
are pulled free or finally 
too tight at the edge.

There is still time. 
You could go in there.
The mirror mirrors the dark
as much as any thing
as inside the closet 
the darkness
inside the darkness
in the box 
is no darker. 
Finger the weakness.
Work the seams.
The light along the line 
is where it gives. 

This was always going to be 
the feeling,
to want to be 
more than a fate,
more than a falsity,
more than a turning head, if you could
break the bind.

Stagger out.
Fill the night
with one howl.
There’s an open door.
An open flap 
can be enough. 
Be a pulse.
Be a pair of hands 
with a rhythm.
Unravel. Uncover. Flip 
what is empty 
into a thing with a beat 
and be, 
after the shiny glittery. 
Then be 
a beating heart.