The Scary Thing

There is a tornado inside the mind,
Crimson stirring, thoughts
Like dust motes, innocuous
At first, that turn and turn
Like a ninth grader in bed the night
Before the first day of high school.

No one ever speaks of those thoughts.
They just smile, eat dinner,
Go dancing maybe,
Talk to friends in the calmest voices
As if their lives were grocery lists,
ten second newscasts.

The face lies.
It does one thing, the mind
Another. That’s the scary thing,
Not the thoughts which, even now,
Swing into a person like a wrecking
Ball, rip the shutters
From their hinges. It’s not the blink,
Blink, crackle of synapses
Like dislodged electrical wires
That we should fear. No.

It’s the deception of skin
And muscle.
The yawns, the nostrils’
flare, the stillness
Of cheeks in repose.