what lives in my bones
It is stitched into my bones, this disease,
call it shame if you need a smaller word.
What it does to me is uglier than that name.
It festers in the soft dark of my soul,
rotting everything my hands reach for.
And still, I love it.
The way you love a scar you keep reopening.
The way you love a fire for the warmth,
even as it eats the house down around you.
I know it will kill me.
I know, and I stay.
So tell me,
how does anyone let go
of the thing that has learned
the exact shape of their hands?
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