TranniversaryEight years since ground zero.The morning is still a confrontation:the stranger in the mirror,needle in the thigh,no amnesty from the dawn.The world’s eye is a crooked glass,cutting across my silhouette,lopping off what doesn't fit—drafting me in my own margins,forced to be palimpsest.Easier to stay behind the locked doorthan walk into the daily abbatoir:the quick jab of a passing gaze,the heavy, measuring appraisal,the slow, quiet carving from kin.But the marrow refuses to be plastic.The molecules hold their stubborn shape,sliding further from consensus,Levels ever steady,leaving only this quiet decay.There are not enough razorsto defeat the shadow on the skin.There is only the waking,barely the coping,and an unanswered prayer.
