A Fish Hook in the Skin of My Back

That bloated, rotting horizon at my back

clogs my peripheral vision.

I take the straight path to avoid the smell of rot that

encroaches upon me so ubiquitously.

It lays across the edge of the world like the carcass of some colossal creature,

some monolithic mistake.

I kneel on the side of this cracked asphalt and gather a handful of dust and dirt

to place inside the cavity in my chest.

That beating enigma to the left of my breast rotted away some months ago,

and my blood feels too thin without added clots and clogs of dirt.

As I pack this dust-dry filth in between my ribs, I feel my pulse slow and thicken,

my unruly emotions falter and suffocate.

Good.

It makes it easier to keep my eyes forward.