I am my own poison.
This medicine I ooze
is not for healing.
It is a dagger,
a point of excavation.
A readily available coffin.
A sorceress of nothing.
It mandates nothing.
It offers nothing.
It makes me nothing.
Bible fingers sin inside this open wound,
heavy with discordance.
Orifice deep, a winding—
Songs on repeat, dispel/
saltwater praises,
prayers on cheeks guide and repent
my armor tinged with eager supple madness
a cushion I recognize/
where does all the time I’ve wasted go?
and how does it return?
where to if not the sun?
where to if not the moon?
where mountains become voyeurs of our submissive
our ribs attached,
we eat the citrus from our middle
and swallow—
we cower with branched stems/ crooked pains and spines dance—
the only medicine
