Tell me you are a lord
of jagged stones that were pillars.
Tell me I am wrong
about my skin, that it is no fortress.
What work of fiction can pacify
you who must sleepwalk the line
between what is real
and what is etch-a-sketch to survive?
Pretend the grass is deadly and press me deep
down in that forest of switchblades.
Pretend cement is lava hungry
to suck meat from your shins but I
am safe and solid. Can resist. Can’t be
burned down or swallowed up. Pretend
the water is poison
and I will pretend to be poison.