Spilled ink and madness

I try not to live out myself in others:
it is already hard to be my own enemy.
My latitudes and longitudes are too far
to be understood and below my tropics,
there is spilled ink and madness.

The ends of my fingertips are dirty.
I buried them in mud, expecting
to harvest more than the words.
The elasticity of my (dis)belief makes me
vulnerable. I can see what hurts me
coming close like a doped soldier marching
and ready to die for a dead revolution.

My mental instability is never without
a reason but it is temporally.
In the end I always leave myself
when I can discard who I was
or what I am in the wind or in
iridescent tongues.

Karla Bardanza
http://asmoonsewsthesatinstars.blogspot.com
http://skycladatmidnight.tumblr.com/