what is this that
you are after?
i’ve lain with the
rotting, salivating
dogs in this
lousy bed
of nails and
glass.
who, bay
protests at
my intrusions,
snarl at
my nape, and
the injustice
of this occupation.
so you’ve kicked
the thorns
through my
side.
the stench from
those festering
wounds reeks
of burnt rubber.
i hold out my arms
and try to
see inside of here,
this lowly station.
try to fit
into your
throttlehold.
i’m stumbling
with knives at
my brain,
knives at my throat.
i choke down
the panic
and blood.
you force my eyes open
and black smoke
pours out.
you mention the
suicides and their
unending chains,
and i still
manage to feel
ashamed.