the me in gasoline

the me in gasoline on water is a rainbow
of potential sliding around, skimming the tops, spreading then
unraveling with every
exhale of the Bay
shape shifting like a scream
my perplexed smirk distorted then tortured
and mad in the only possible way

the slick bird above me
purple to orange to blue to barely discernible shine –   
oh shine on, you gull, shine on
free from such thin and colorful prisons as this.

like climbing vines of ivy

long graceful fingers
and growing like ivy
up pale cheekbones
leaving only the eyes

do you ever
look in the mirror
and feel that fear –
climbing vine of panic

which hands are real?
the longer you stare
the more those leaves of
nerves pressing
belong to someone else
the more those eyes
grow sparkling in wicked

what it feels to repeat over and over

repetition has a certain pathetic
and an affinity
for short panicked breaths
tightening chest
then a
fistful of hair pulled

if i told you
all these things
i was lying
if i told you
i was affected
lying too.

repetition that
two-faced vilian.
practice makes perfect
and this…
a tick burrowing in.