Psycho

Some nights 
I worry Anthony
Perkins will rip into my shower
dressed as an old woman,
and other nights
I'm sure it will happen.

I am sure that heads
will roll,
and I won't make
such a pretty corpse
as Janet Leigh.
And maybe they'll
forget about my body,
and just let the shower run.

No quicksand to fill me up,
my hands adjust hot water
to hottest
far left,
farthest left
until I will melt off my
bones
before he gets the chance
to hack
me away,
I'll spin down the drain,
away.

Some nights
there's the end
waiting in my bones,
tingling my fingertips,
the end
waiting beyond the 
shower curtain.
Beyond the hands
of a trim young man
in character.

Like the fatigue of a long drive,
the weariness
of loss.
When hands don't seem
to work any longer,
when headstones look
like a nice napping place.

When each neon letter
is an invitation.
These are the nights
that are cloudless
and starry,
that I am halfway
out the door.
Eyes staring through,
maybe years,
dimensions.
Through the end.

If that's how I go out,
at the second-personality
of a beautiful man
in a frightening character,
with my head 
from my body,
sprawled in my shower,
I guess that will be ok.

Some nights
I hope it's that way.