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—