I am not a withered flower
I am not a cool, blue background
I am not a head of smoke
I am not a cartoon rain cloud
I am not a beflowered gilded cage –
beauty? I spit on it.
I am the tsunami that crushes you
and the earthquake that squeezes you
and the volcano that ends the summer.
I am the current that drags you down
and the cold sneaking into your bones
and the water gasped into your lungs.
I am the grease in your hair
and the stink in your armpits
and the itch in your crotch.
I am the diarrhoea that rips itself from you
and the wound leaking pus
and the maggot in your flesh.
I am your intestines spilling from your body.
I am your parasitic twin.
I am your self-immolation: a beautiful blaze
melting your fat
crisping your skin.
I’m not an emotion.
I’m not a feeling.
I’m a pathology, a corrosion – and yet you erase me –
“take their own life” – give me some credit!
I was here before apes named themselves human
I’ll be here when the last of you huddles alone in its waste
I’m inside you, part of you – rip me out?
You’ll tear out your heart.
I’m a mortality rate – and if you dare forget it –
I
will
take
the
ones
you
love.
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