It happens in the middle of the night
when I am dreaming in pastels,
I’ll sit up in bed and shiver in the dark,
sweat trickling down my forehead
in the same sickening way it drips
from a faucet with faulty seal.
I’m nauseous, weak; I stand and pace
in my plaid boxer briefs to the bathroom
where the mirror reflects an image
I paid $5 to see at the last carnival.
My taut skin making my veins
look varicose in the glow of the vanity.
I run to the kitchen screaming:
there are scars underneath my skin
awaiting a knife to uncover them.

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