ryan

There. Can you smell it?
A heavy, bitter tasting smoke
Writhing from a stew of troubled thoughts
To fill my nose
To burn my eyes
To poison my stomach
                   with words
         that are not mine
                   but could be mine.

The stew,
It boils,
Blasting upward thickened steam
         Dancing in the cloud of smoke . . .
I smash the lid on tightly.

I cling onto my dented pot
And cover the top, full-body
Pressing down contamination.
It smokes up from the edges.

         Choking fumes climb in my mouth.
         They call me to partake
                   in its ingredients.

How can I eat?
(how can I not?)

The fight continues . . .