Portending Concrete Reality

[lacan123]

Indefatigably I fret.
Inexorably I agonize.

I crawl and curl up,
worrying that one day my skin will grow too large for my bones and organs,
and that I will lie there.
Someone will mistake my epidermal catastrophe for a used bandage:
padding the scrapes they earned after discarding tricycles
with gauze covered in my adolescent acne.
For this I bleed my wrists of anxiety.


Desperately, I attempt to flee chronological progress,
trying to climb back into the womb.
I climb up the blue cord like a rope ladder,
and in exhaustion slip down into my periwinkle noose.

I create these tribulations,
and let them tread over my unwrinkled knuckles.

I wax my skull and use the hair to weave a crown covering my now bare scalp.
I am Macbeth’s portent, becoming grievous royalty, playing my own fool.

There's a great deal in this I can relate to - the ideas of anxiety, self abuse, regression back to safety. The last line is very good - and reminiscent in rhythm of the famous lines of Macbeth Act 5 Scene 5.

The only line that remains obscure for me is the penultimate one?