sometimes your head lies to you
lying beside you
hushing and shushing you and hiding you from
things it dreamed up in its spare time.
or otherwise it chides, digs and jibes
under your ribs
too hard, too hard
poking at you in a funhouse mirror
(it’s not so much fun now).

you?
it?
is it right to make that split?
if you know that it’s you
chewing on your own bone
how can you throw off the skin on your shoulders,
toss the guilt over to the left
and leave the table like you’re innocent?

you’d think that
if it is indeed you
there’d be a manual or switch for ‘OFF’
something to press with a finger or cheek
something to short-circuit, twiddle or tweak
a function somewhere to say
‘stop hitting yourself!’
to the Merediths and Esthers and Lisas
and the Mozart orchestra
flailing wildly up there.

so it can’t be you
it must be something, someone else
some other voice, some other hands
a foreign body
in the building without permission
because if it was you, and not ‘it’ as you think,
well… you’d be able to make it stop,
right?

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