On the Edge of the Darkness

one hand open
to welcome the gray area,
other hand clenched
to represent
the size of my blood pump,
according to third-grade
biology, pulsing
with a storm surge
of urgency, breathing
too fast, too fast,
and gray matter
is vacuumed
toward the gray
deepening into dark,
give me a minute,
don’t give me a minute,
nothing left soon,
nothing left to crush
in my fist like a tomato,
dripping seeds, juice,
or like a sandcastle,
grains, gritty and soft
until they scrape
your hands raw,
give me a minute,
I’m deciding whether
I care anymore,
too late, too late,
the darkness called,
and I was too polite
to refuse its offer.