Shock treatment


An empty ice-less icebox
strange to taste
and a
loneliness one can only
grow to love
on such days
All this
Brittle, stilted, artificial
stuff.
Thunderous silence but
I sense it
beneath your strong,
turned back
And alongside a tumbling stomach.
Fingers which
twitch and tremble
in pockets
of gold
cold to the touch,
the lack thereof
of
of something and
Absolute blind fuming sick.
Humiliation and insulin
trances and
false post-partum depression.
I will pull your tonsils out
as you so plead
but only to trade you the ache
for a surging burn of acid
in my body
These nights, they keep
twisting me into balls and
a small, very small word before bed.