‘If a poem was the medicine’

—- I’m tipsy and I want pink bedsheets and braces and severance payments again. gums always bleeding, sweating through my skin. the fever at my core needs to be extinguished. and I need to be adopted. my memories need a new ram. my horns need to grow in. but I’m just pillow defenseless, my nails always bitten down, jagged. my scars still itching. permanent nerve damage. my words need to vomit up and out from my esophagus. but I just keep swallowing them in. I need the world to end like it did in 2012. a new armageddon. I need cake with my feelings. to find that moment when your gaze turned away, when I lost control of the plot, and my soaking wet sheets turned into poetry.