Declining health
My health feels tattooed into my skin,
absorbed by my blood,
never failing to haunt my thoughts.
He’s always there—
in the background or up close,
still in the picture.
He doesn’t talk all the time,
But his silence isn’t the cure.
He screams during quietness,
digs into my brain like a gravedigger.
I don’t know when I’ll be buried,
but I know he dug deep.
His scream—
a siren—
doesn’t turn off, even after obeying.
He’s not that big.
Just a baby.
But he was granted authority early on.
And I keep sinking
into the hole he dug,
where no rope reaches,
and the dark learns my name.
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