Knowing

Instruction required:

no known history to provide guidance.

This tightrope is threaded with barbed wire

and thorns. I am bare;

my feet

my need

I will buy shoes that promote balance,

the illusion of poise

and a lock with a brass key.

I submit to an experimental study

on repression, submerging desire.

Or cast myself back

to a time when women wore corsets,

cinched tight.

Bone digs into flesh, trained

to not feel

to deny the inhale.

It’s just another thorn.

Feel the key cut into my palm;

refine my balance.

The very air

humid beneath my skirts.

A pilgrimage to Future

is my newest skill set.

Manifest force-field.

Seal myself into plexiglass.

A red light warning flashes harsh.

Caution, I have lost the will to attract

or retain. It all slips

through my synapses,

my fingers

my thighs.

Deny the source.

Cover clear walls with reminders,

with pictures of deserts

from a time without crosses.

When the aches presses

deep in my chest, my limbs become liquid,

pliant, as the barbs carve deep

each time my toes curl around the heavy wire.

I will not respond.

I know this is a test, a trick of light.

There is no place for longing

in this hellscape.

Further instruction required

because I stop paying attention,

sketch storm clouds in margines of notebooks

instead of training focus on something

I didn’t realize I needed

to know.

Required now to walk backward,

the key slick with sweat,

tinged with effort and desire.

The tightrope is so high.

My soles are bleeding.

It’s the only good thing to come of this.

I can feel the friction fade,

resistance slip, deliberate steady damp

slows my pace

threatens my grip.

I don’t look down because I know

exactly how far it is

to the ground.