sicken

.





thick orange juice mucus in me in my throat in every opening that speaks or begs or cries a little to get its way. the skin around these openings is hot and tense. a rope. a promise. an omen. sheets of disdain and waste curling down. a wall paper. rotten. past its' prime. out of date. like childhood. like the monsters under the bed. but they don't care either way. they keep coming back in spite of how unfashionable they've become. they tickle the skin around these openings. they pull the delicate hairs in fistfuls. they make sure the skin is taut and that every pore is shut tight. there is nothing to believe or disbelieve when it comes to pain. here it is. it will be back. cross your heart and fingers and legs. cross every T and hope to die.






angela simione, 2010