Psychotropic

I feel bludgeoned
with the club-end of her wit
and concave from her claw-like excavations.

what had she, in those hands, to carve
a silent message or drawing
in some unused portion of my body,

that only she could see?  when I stood before the mirror
I could not discern what
she dismissed as
"simply un-
important."

she must have forced her
dark device
under-
neath an outer shell
and found some pleasant treasure there
where I could see
only
average matter.

what weapon, what sharp reality, she had leveled to employ
was
raised or
outstretched in some female fashion? I search the mirror, again

for evidence of where she might have plunged
(her hands),
to a frank and unknown depth:
a secret deep
placating a thing
to stay where it was with charms and whistles.

I feel as though I
serve the purpose of displaying
some telling array of magic, glancing off from behind me
like lightening
in most if not every place
nightly
where I'm apt to wander
illuminating only my paranoid surety
of its existence
in bold and flashing descriptions, playful shadows aft of my
senses.

its silly, somehow, but where
if anywhere, do I seem different to you?