25
Fortune-Told
A college thought-of-once
conducted my palmistry
and for reasons unknown
grabbed my left wrist
like a handle all while
prodding my life, head,
and fate lines quite liberally.
She concluded, glasses
brushing my thumb for effect,
that I was long bent on death,
I was waiting for something,
I, supposedly, feared markedly.
Yes,
I test the sore digits of splayed hands
having apparently fist fought my
apartment, or so purpled
knuckles imply, and I lost,
or so spoiled knees, swelled shoulders
admit at the slightest movement.
I grasp the neck of the half-bottle,
soon too dizzy to wave away listed fear,
what I’m so bent upon, and this wait.
Whatever it was, thoughts, right—everything.
Let’s pretend I’ll rouse at sundown
with some semblance of forward.
I short cut myself out of certain
panic and attack with sudden
comatose, blackout for breakfast.
Reeling inwards,
No.
I ball my body into a fist.