Poor Circulation

When left alone I forget
what’s in my veins, what
holds me together inside
this dry, cold skin. I forget
what got me here, the lies
and blackouts, the awkward
errors, the brief episodes of
sun that break through the
passing storm clouds. All
I can warp myself around
is this numbness beyond needles
and pins—everything an
accident waiting to happen
and I'm overdue on the
insurance payment.

2.26.11