imeanwhatelseareyougoingtodoreally

is it fighting, the way we hurt
ourselves,
and if so, what or whom
are we battling?
surely there is nothing left worth,
at this point, preserving
but scars that pale in comparison
to the struggle,
paltry marks to prove having
suffered
and then finally when
you've almost given up,
thought you've won
the skirmish -

it's taken ten years to realize
the extent of the sickness, how
it burrows, hibernates
until you relax the sentry and
then it bubbles
to the surface, hissing
mine, all mine,
and you let it back in,

i mean,
what else are you going to do really