Friday the 13th

Spontaneous blood drives down my face
over the hill of my upper lip.
I'm not the rock you think I am.

My face melts in shame and disappointment
and churns in my stomach, making me sick.
I'm not the rock you think I am.

Tears stream down my down-turned face,
or they would if I'd just let them.
I'm not the rock you think I am.

My cold fingers are the only thing cold
on my entire body. The rest of me is fire.
I'm not the rock you think I am.

I keep tasting what I ate last night--
whatever it is I'm about to lose.
I'm not the rock you think I am.

Your opinion turns as you read the proof.
I am a sickening sight of ugliness.
I am the vermon undeserving of breath
that now you know I am.