Little Black Dot

when my modern canadian poetry professor marks my final, it will be obvious to him that i spent this night, this last night before the exam, painting and socializing and getting high and laughing into the night because even our shadows were hilarious--or maybe he won't know that. but it will be obvious to him that i did not spend this night cobbling together evidence for a comparative essay on the poet's role in society or the apathetic universe or the superimposition of myth over reality like i'm supposed to, like i would have done if i was good.
something inside me is quaking, rupturing, and i don't know what it is. but i'm waiting. i'm waiting for it to break open and spill like blood, or as blood, onto the page or the canvas, or the floor.
the tarot will not comment.