I've been running for a long time now,
and I'm slowing down
unable to bear
the cramping in my gut.
Hands thrown above my head,
I've become one foot
and half of my body
slamming into the ground‹left to right, left.
Sensation keeping me from slowing
I'm tired,
forever, towards nothing.
So I stay between faster and faster and stopping,
because I can breathe here,
I can survive here,
I can remember yesterday afternoon rising from my stomach
to my knees because I whispered, "fuck me," letting the wanting become word and him in me,
wishing me out of my skin so that I could walk around
the follicles of hair on my arm,
release the scream that I have been squelching,
tearing the sheets from the bed beneath him
'till I am thrown prone again to my stomach,
knowing what lies between my body,
and the rest of the world,
unable to understand
what too much is.

Robet Roy Mapes