I have a punchable face

 When I see me smile I see that I have a punchable face. 

When I hear me speak I see that I have a punchable mouth. 

To have come this far only to see that I need to be buried under the universe, my truth is in zero. 

My imagination traps me. With it I see a bartender discretely turning tricks during 10-minute disappearances. I see her friends conspiring to hound me out, her knowing that I am watching, her hating me for being so interested in what she's doing, in finding her out. But it's my imagination, and it is my space helmet when I'm out and about. 

I imagine that I am of no use, not now, not ever. Everything I begin crumbles before me. I will that, all my relationships sunk in the harbor. I intentionally occupy an inhospitable place holed up in my mind for the safety of my infantile emotions. That is the be-all, end-all of my preoccupation, this entity holed up in time like a sniper.