home.

where I've found myself

inevitably,
the sadness always finds a way out.
this time, it leaks from clean slices of skin.
pasty pale bellied skin like deep-sea creature tissue;
sallow, soft, mucosal, maddening.
and this release is not without problems.
blood, that religion of reality, that vibrant
reminder, that bright red banner in the sky,
-- “Yes, you are indeed real and alive!”
but what happens next?

I crave the warmth that my exsanguination offers,
that ephemeral sense of being whole
as I drain out the sickness.
a sickness that I know,
that I know alone,
and that I’ve always known,
to be that which is
myself.