a grain of sand, a grain
of salt in the wound.
boxing match models flash
the flashcard bearing your ailment.
round three, remission.
this illness is in my cells,
bulging veins from the side of my neck
constrict my air passage.
my face looks like an eggplant,
my fingers are fish sticks harvested
from your abysmal depths.
now my breath smells like you
from chewing off my nails.
my tongue feels like snail,
main course.
escargot,
i’m swallowing it now.
this is a most uncomfortable

death.