Young Writers Society

A slip of the pen and you know me-
frontward and sideways,
an amoeba submerged in a glacial metal sky,
beneath the moon’s telescopic eye.

Raising hands, I break the surface,
break out, break the light
into a million granules;
they sink into my pores so I am
peeled like an onion,
dropped on the linoleum tiles,

into chutes lined up,
bullets poised to rip through
heaven’s fabric.

Split my atoms, send me
spinning away from my nucleus;
negative charges reverberate through
empty spaces
in my mind, sends me
reeling, as though from too much wine,

I succumb to gravity,
fall into myself, away from the orbit
of the telescopic eye that
knew me too well.