Mortification

I see, beyond the fray,

a face like mine.

Over

the flailing limbs,

the weeping eyes,

the gnashing teeth,

I see that face.

The floor slick and specular,

I watch myself tiptoe

carefully,

straight into the teeming mass.

Inside, I take licks like

afterthoughts:

the curve of a fist a lagging question,

a rhetorical curl – I trade no blows.

Inside, I take kicks like

syllables:

stressfully, yet unifying in sense.

Soles leave

whispers on my ribcage,

the last orders of waning fury.

The floor sweats

liquor.

I reach the likeness,

as if my eyes have played a painter:

a portrait canvassed

in my own skin.

Expecting joy, I laugh.

It parries with a jab.

I take it gladly,

spending teeth

with a grin.