January 20, 2011
By Anonymous

Maybe it was in the past—
two years, to be exact—
that a sick gauntness dragged
my sauntering skin coarsely
over my young bones;

and that the illness pushed
me to the dirt,
losing a war that only
I knew of, with gravity
so overwhelming;

and that the hours growled by
with a pain—describable
only as just manageable—
crippling in the core

dying, slowly,
my instincts
while satisfying
my evil.

Or maybe
the disease resurrected
screaming through the unheard
depths of a secret hole
that I remember from a long time ago—

and the dark phoenix rises in fire
from untouched ashes,
unstoppably reborn.

“I know the morning’s going to hurt,
but f*** it
‘cause I know this works.”

A darkness fills lost space
under my eyelids now
and the fire threatens
my questionable soul,
my indefinite spirit.

Southern poison,
the end punctuation to my former ills,
breaks me in dreams
as I try to loosen the binding
between myself and the tangible:
these drugs, these drinks,

this d*** nourishment—
now I know I can reach

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