The fire in my bonded feet
Burns the angst in my belly,
Boils my blood purple in acid,
And pushes my torn veins,
My bones, my weak tendons
To rise like a snared angel
From her daily nightmares
Of vomit and sewed wings.
In this cave of silver dust
And tape-sealed windows,
In the iron cage big enough
For breathing and cursing
Hungry rats and deaf saints,
I am my own dead prisoner,
I am my own quick salvation,
Their god just refuses to exist.
When my last final days begin,
When robed souls in metal beds,
In dirty holes, in dark rooms
Inducing dreams about robots,
March towards infested latrines
To wash off tattoos, their wounds,
I will strip naked, swallow flames,
And give up to the waiting embers.