Last night, concordat to our bargain,

you whipped me and I bled;

wild roses by the parkway, a knotted cord.

As though each strike afforded the lack

in my schema and image a control over fear

and guilt by means of this pain.

“If you can’t say something positive about humanity

then say something equivocal.”

I want to feel something.

They say we accept pain from others

equal to that which we are willing

to inflict on ourselves, never more.

Job confounds me, Prometheus sickens me.

He who the sword of heaven will bear

should be as holy as severe;

I wander morbidly through the past, then turn to the candle

snuffed out forever, how all existence

becomes tranquility tinged with terror, and I love

pop culture, I eat it up like dog food

lying to myself when—no,

it’s that there are no truths available.

Subjected to the funhouse mirrors,

the music and the pain, sacred pain,

this world, ours, I mean, mine,

I’ve never known what to do here.

Ben Fama is a writer based in New York City. He is the author of Deathwish (Newest York, 2019) and Fantasy (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2015). He is the editor-in-chief of Wonder Press and runs a monthly writing workshop for poets called Cool Memories.