The sickness follows me like
a beaten dog, or maybe the other way around.
The sun rises like a new bruise every morning and
heals every night, just to bleed all over again.
The moon blinks, sleepy, the moon blinks,
awake, eyes wide, eyes shut.
Still, I limp along this road just like
all the others before me and all the others
after. Bleed anew when I wake, sleeping,
just to do it all over again. Beg to do it
all over again.
The sickness doesn’t look so
sick in the soft light of day, yet
looking too long is perverse in the purple bruise of
night. Here, my bones grinding together, step after
step. Here, I walk, eyes open, eyes shut,
peeking out and afraid at what I might find.
The sickness beats me like a dog
and I crawl right back.