Day

A million babies, all trying to get out of my skin.
Million, thousands, I do not really know.
As many babies as there are pores, straining and struggling
To get out of my skin.

So I kneel on the floor and offer my tears up
To an  all-consuming sun. May it never be night, I say
And attempt to bind it with the promise
Of a million pregnancies, under my skin.

For when the night comes and everything is cold
In the summer's darkness, the stabs under my skin
As many stabs as there are pores, escape and rise
Wisps, ghosts, smoke rings of pain.

And locked in my room, bound with handcuffs
Of compulsion to be an adult, I lie rigid, hot,
On the left of the bed, watching
A simulation, a feeble dance of all that hurts.

And yet I cannot see. I do not see.
All I see is a cloak of muslin
that the wisps and ghosts and smoke rings make
And the muslin turns heavy, dark, velvet.

The sun! The sun! I cry as the velvet
Morphs again and turns to lead, with laces, a vest.
I close my eyes, I wait for the inevitable. Hands crossed, laced
A thousand suns explode behind the orange of my eyes.