Lunar Ravings

I keep coming up with new ideas

for what I should say at my ODSP hearing.

Should I tell them about the minutiae

of getting dressed, like dressing a wound

—not too tight, not too rough, never quite just right—

that keep my bones from trying even harder

to claw themselves out of my skin?

Do I tell them how much I want to claw my way out?

If only I could watch the clock tick, the days ease away

until the full moon and let the snarling beast stuffed into

this small, aching body wrench open my TMD jaws

and my fibro-pressure-point ribs and rage, rage

against the dying of my sharp wit

and my ability to run, to walk,

to stand without wincing.

I hate playing victim, prey.

I want to sink my teeth

into something.