I am at my dreams, avoiding the fights,
the raucous crowd, the canvas ring spotlight,
knocking out the sights, trying to pretend,
I don’t need to wrestle with the angel again.

Exhausted, I am flung aside, a doll whose sand leaks out.
Diseased, I am burning, limp, thirsty in your grip.
Afraid, I cannot meet your eyes, your stare, your mirror face.

I cannot depend on my wish to attend
I cannot make amends for the messages I send

I am wasted with the futility of effort
I want to say some simple words, say my name, say it.
My lips and tongue move imperceptibly. Immeasurably
yours move without word, and a noiseless roar follows,
that shakes me, bends each bone, caves me hollow, rattles
me and I am past understanding; flight is all that remains.

What reprieve, what repeat awaits me?
What scared mirror flees before me?
What fight, what flight awaits me?
I say, “no more scares.”
I mean no more scars.
I tremble to avoid waking,
the scaffold is shaking.

I search your eyes in vain,
your eyes are stones that see
my eyes sealed in mediocrity.
I fumble to speech, fade in relief,
lost in sawdust, I am not complete

for I am frail and cannot tell—
I want and do not want to wrestle.

(This is the end of the second chapter of Deep Water — Relapse)

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