Digesting an Addict

I take a bite from the space between my tumors

And chew before I attempt to swallow,

But I choke on it either way.

Like always, it tears and shreds

My fleshy tissue as it goes down.

It flops into my stomach and drags

 

Me along with it. You can(not) see the drags

Of tendons we leave behind. See, my tumors

Are still thriving, when we were trekking down

To my pit, where it will dwell since I swallowed,

While I can leave just to pass through the shreds

Once again, as I find my way

 

Back for another visit. In a way,

It has become my food. Forget that it drags

And leaves parts of me in shreds,

Because when I eat it, I play nice with my tumors.

Don’t get me wrong: I do not swallow

For the taste, but I can’t help it—as it goes Down—

 

I (do not) lick my lips: run down

The texture of my tongue across the way,

Along my skin every time I swallow.

I think, maybe, this will make the dragging

Better, the shreds less tattered, the tumors

Less heavy; maybe, less parts of me will become shreds.

 

But I was kidding myself. The shreds

Will remain tattered, and the space will always bring me down

Because I will always take a bite between my tumors,

Which will keep expanding all the way

And do what they do: keep making drags

Out of me, because I eat myself when(ever) I swallow.

 

Soon enough, I will not know what to do other than swallow

All the space—even before I chew--and create more shreds,

Because I’m addicted to digesting it now and love when it drags

Me to my pit: down,

Without exceptions, all the way.

Then, I take another bite from the space between my tumors.

 

How do you (not) swallow? Before it goes down,

Cuts out shreds along the way

Then drags what’s left of me as my tumors—