Losing

-I want to lose things: lose myself,
lose everything. The little I possess.
The car with the chronic transmission disorder,
the thirty two inch TV I bought
myself when I was twenty. The three rackets,
two of them bent, the DVD player that hasn’t
failed me, the many discs with movies,
burned or store bought, the discs with
music, the little box that buzzes and whirls
as I try to fall asleep, the keyboard and
mouse attached to it, the monitor that makes
my eyes blur after hours of staring at the blank
white word processing page.
Lose the squeaky bed that develops a rhythm
as I snore, the pillows that lump under my head,
the many black socks, made of synthetic materials,
that keep my feet from breathing, the old sneakers
torn and separating at the soles, the patched up
jeans that feel so comfortable, the faded shirts
that shrink with every wash, the phone clipped
to my pants-silently displaying the time.
Lose the hair on my head, already falling;
the skin that dies everyday and keeps me looking dry,
the nails often overgrown, the scars from healing
and a second birth, the weary eyes that grow blurry,
the muted eardrums that fail several times throughout
the day, the body that encases and keeps me.
Lose the insecurities that attempt to crucify me,
the dark thoughts that in weak moments frighten me,
the memories of my tumultuous childhood,
the scars that no one sees but bleed all the same,
the thoughts that scurry-leaving footprints that
convince me I am not same, the bleeding heart
that pushes me toward change.
Lose it all, ‘til there is nothing left,
an energy-not
positive or negative,
good or bad.