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