Gut wrenching guilt. The power of words,
speaking them aloud makes them true,
truer than they were before.
This is why we joke not about accidents, misinterpretations,
heart attacks, cancers, one-hundred-year-old women dying
in hospital beds against their wishes.
Death
we die many deaths
Dark chocolate used to make my brain tingle
and the high trickled down into my fingertips and
made me a new woman: bolder. More in love.
After I died for the seventh time I could no longer relish
you, your smoky texture. All you left me with was
bitter aftertaste, a gritty tongue cleaning teeth,
thirst.
Parched
waiting for number eight
skulls and bones nudging my addiction to fear
heckle me until the new dawn
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