I miss the taste of spoiled milk and rotten fish,
an existential stew of wounds healing awkwardly.
so what really happened? I'll never know.
Three steps in to it, then taking two steps back,
my perspective becomes as narrow as my expectations.
my stomach is churning without a tumor to reject.
When I look for something in the moment
and its definitely not there,
I feel at home
And the thoughts haven't changed at all, dear,
but perhaps they land farther apart.
They sit inside my chest as heavy as my eyes when I saw you approach.
As though my blood-stained smile had been a photograph
you crumpled up and threw in the recycling bin,
I have felt so biodegradable, but like plastic I retain my melted shape.
I was watched and yet invisible
broken but still intact
unwanted and desireless
conscious but so knocked out
drowning in the dryness of the land
with one hand to God and the other holding my pitchfork strong