In Which the Tick's Head isn't Removed Along with the Body
smoke sour and singed crawls from my lips.
too deep I did go, now I’ve lost my wit.
In a graveyard of ticks, I’ve dug my own bed.
They drain me alive, then leave me with heads.
Detached from the corpse as I pull the bug free,
Teeth dug so deep I’m surprised they don’t sing.
“Don’t miss the ends,” my dad told me ago;
But Jesus Christ, please, they’re all that I know.
Angry, abandoned, and one last screw you,
To a healing new soul, and a good person too.
It left me with chores and a scar and a plea,
That maybe, next time, I’ll be left with a flea.
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