Dry me.

Must I reiterate
you’re tasked to clasp
the source of sullen
slake long parched gullet
wracked with lacklust
rasp and hack dust…
or slit your wrists or your belly in shame
each cycle vengeful and bleakly the same
black and blue-eyed
that feverish glint
that maddening flame.

So here we are
at the end of all things
days blotted besotted esophageal dust storm
stirred from flaking guts and crushed bones
notwithstanding wave after wave
of self-bating savior raving exemption
and rabid redemption and clawing and grasping but inches from light
from the surface
something breezy and not so
dripping with
mired in
sickly condensation
stickily slathered opportunities wasted
sludge from the afterdusk
sopping wet
but not watered-down
more a sour viscosity, slimy.
So no burning sunrays can dry me.

Scorched to submission, yet slick to the touch
misery sickening swamp that defines me.


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