M A L I G N A N T

When I first felt,

most delicately,

the acute, concerned edge of treason

my revivified lungs and blood and saliva

began to circumvent guilt

and I thought for a moment my outmost emotion could not grow past this point:

Excalibur slicking air after all,

Andromeda stuck in her eternal fall,

gasping for Cassiopeia's burn

grasping for the vernal tilt and turn

when the zodiac was still

in tact

and your eyes, finely tuned, 20/20 vision

before all that

"I made a mistake,"

and, "wont you just listen?"

Now I can't even admit it,

the conscience I'm missing,

So I teeter right at the edge (not off)

though that would make sense

just precariously balanced,

perpetually under the influence.

These days,

it's almost under control

adder, rattling in the pit of my gut

contagion active, but not aware

slick, coiled obsidian viper

asleep, but immortally there

my breath stinks of pomegranates

my teeth not teeth

but oozing, viscid seeds

My eyes as dull

and black as beads

My skin flakes in the warmth of spring
Your sight, amaurotic,

groping in darkness

handicapped fingers pricking on everything I've given you

and always at the whim of my thread

all of that hope, asleep but not dead

standing there, surrounded, reptilian skin sins
you moan like a bitch in heat.
I dream of quarantines and burning bibles
I tab my tongue, and shake some hands
but thirst for the worst
of its many symptoms,
just another victim
of restless universe syndrom.