the illness spreads:
the platelets push, like dainty fingertips,
along the walls of my veins.
my skin bursts here, reflecting pain there,
all wrapped up and tied
with an apex of mortality, ring
around my restless soul.

when i am dead i suspect
there will be relief, though there is no way
to tell for sure.
when i am dead there might be stars
in the sky, or just stairs,
endless stairs,
leading upwards, nowhere, slowly.

the aches make me shudder, bring skin and joint
and muscle together in a tight little jig.
why aren't you here to hold me?
i shake with grief,
for the loss of a body and the birth of
a new pain, one that rises like bile
and feasts on my throat.
here, the doctor says, placing it gently in my arms,
this was part of you, and now
it is not.

from the iron that bows my shoulders,
the vertical strength in my spine, i have hands now
that do not hesitate to kill.
the weight of that choice is heated and heavy
and sits in my heart,
waiting for attention but patient for consequence.
the yoke was a gift, i think, from someone
who is part of my past,
who no longer knows me at all.
i bear loss like a charm, stitched onto my sleeve and
pumping polluted desires, because
its stamp on my skin grants me entrance.
in the secret places where absolution can be granted,
i leave a little of myself behind.