Weak, Slobbering, Whimpering

I am too sensitive.

Sensitive to the words

Of stone-deaf others,

Darling faces masked in

White linen burial,

Rock-edges dark as night.

I am too receptive

To the permanent glare

Of laughter and friendship,

That make lonely my black,

Sear my circumference.

If I could be broken,

I would. I feel a lie,

A queen-bitch wallowing

In such sick, pretended

Misery. Grown now so

Uncomfortable with

Self that I make myself

Vomit. Even now, with

My confessions, I am

Garnering such pity.