by Tifanie Thompson
The world is a hoax, 
And the ultimate unknown is this:
This manipulation of its waning softness. 
Slick calves and grinding teeth, 
A war with no weapons but your limbs, 
No strategy but your inadequate understanding. 
I was unprepared for battle. 
Naiveté blinded me, 
But I have adapted. A sense for a sense, 
And I no longer require light for awareness. 
In fact, I have never known myself better 
Than in this swift and total darkness, 
Than in this dream 
Where I can run my fingertips over this map, and 
Sculpt eternity into a prisoner from the sheer will for this to define my infinity. 
Where I can walk the terrain with my eyes closed 
And show no fear when I inhale, 
When I slide my tongue over my lips and hope 
To catch just the briefest taste of this freedom
So that I might savor it for the approaching time
When I will be forced to trade senses. 
And clothe myself in the light 
And struggle to remember the flavor of lightlessness.