Wild Land

am I of this world?
searching the kitchen for anything
to make me holy
in the middle of the week
the flicker and the flame, wavering
the soft burning wick lilting between
this is the trinity of time on your hands
and dueling disorders
making promises I cannot keep
to avoid guilt and other delicacies
my brain and my body are not the same entity
yet, tequila adorns them both in the evening
because life is measured symmetry
I remember what I said
but not in the way you heard it and,
hoped for sanctity in that religion,
promises. There are only unkept words
in this wild land.
Area X in my head, and several versions of myself
standing around
between my mouth and the mirror,
double vision
double death.