my throat filled with dirt. What I can’t hack up
wash down with coffee and cough syrup.
I try to rinse the smell of wet cigarettes
from my body as I pick out
the stones and animals that get caught inside
my chest. When I leave, the world is the same:
The Others walk by, skirts lighting the way,
barely pausing to look beyond the inside
of their eyes. I recognize some, like Grease and Ash,
who ignore me, as I ignore them.
It’s easier to look away than stare
at faces worn like mine. Then I work,
replace the ground dried by the sun with large
pieces of my cheek and the new jobs always
with my back. I yell, as my wounds grow new,
to no-one, constantly. It goes slowly.
Most nights, I drink and bury my head long
enough to want to go home. Every day
I’m less surprised by this life
and consider, for a moment, the tub.
How long would it take to dig through
my stomach, drag as much intestine
as my hands can hold and cram them down my throat
until I found purpose?