This testimony tastes like the surprised eyes of a pierced fish,
a gasp choked, proud hands toying the panicked gills,
underbelly ulcer like the open mouth of a blobfish.
These truths called sins oxidize in the open air
when the cold blood inches to a slimy warm
like room temp, like 98.6 and crawling to a flame.
It’s waking up from a baptism with tadpoles in your mouth,
wet body lifted before the tongue of the moss maze
rushes an apology for spitting out the spirit carcass.