purge


“Won’t somebody let me out?
Don’t want to stick around no more
Sick of looking at you strange
Sick of sticking to the floor.”


finger connecting

epiglottis

a show of power

find control

acid on blue lips

attempts to

manufacture skin

around ulna

stretched-out tight

just a bit more

sick of plain water

but the need is

stronger than crave

sweat trickling

down notched back

tracing triumph

months of sabotage

reach crescendo

lightheaded—but not

from lack, only the

loss, more more more

finger probes tonsil

carefully deep, lodged

clutches the trigger

for maybe another taste

and control heaves

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s