Bounty and Twenty Poems to Read on the Streetcar Senior Thesis ...

At the Breaking Point
I know the temptation
<strong>to</strong> pick a direction <strong>and</strong> walk,
tell no one, cry until
the capillaries burst in my nostrils,
make them find me hours later, huddled
<strong>and</strong> mute in the city park,
my front streaked with
mucus <strong>and</strong> blood.
Praise the fact that
I no longer expect the fruit of madness
<strong>to</strong> hold any solid pit of truth at its core.
The last time I tried <strong>to</strong> scream
the sound snagged on the
smoke-etched cracks in my throat
<strong>and</strong> came out thin <strong>and</strong> shrill,
the whine of begging hound.
8