These terrors with derisive words of praise
are sometimes soft; they sometimes coil and grate.
Today, as on so many other days,
I fear I will be overcome by hate,
self-loathing neither merciful nor kind,
nor gentle, nor immaculate, nor free,
and all that’s good is spoiled, and death is twined—
not rest, but death is twined—in all I see.
Beneath the breastbone, pain regroups and pours.
There is no respite, and we cannot run.
Our sins (and my sins): all are rancid sores
that never heal. They will not be undone.
The point that merits sympathy and scorn
is that we plant, caress, and tend each thorn.
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