by Christian Thomas Golden
Skin is slipping, dripping down
puddles of Caucasian cream follow
as I run through a maze of mirrors
horrified, disgusted, vomiting in circles,
slipping, falling, rolling, crawling
on my hands and knees.
Who turned on the lights?
Alone in a white room, I stand naked
knees shaking, palms sweat-soaked
as a soft voice whispers
“Be still and know that I am God.”