spinning behind my eyelids like a fifth whiskey ginger
it always seems to come back around to this
folded over my own stomach and convinced
that I am what I eat, and mostly, that makes me
battery acid and chewed nerves
(tonight, at least)
I can spend ten months sleeping easy
but all it takes is one swallowed wasp wing on one morning, one
dry-grass inhalation to scratch those voices open
and I am whispering to myself again,
conspiring with catastrophe behind my cracking knuckles
and let me tell you, it is a comfort by now
to bathe in the sweat of
everything that could go wrong
all it takes is one look at that blood blister on my toe
to remind me that even good days leave scars sometimes
so what's the point of healing
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