Thread the wire through my gums;
attach it to your wrist.
Songs can call it beautiful
or make you look like this...
Still, I taste the iron you pressed against my tongue.
Colors you'll be buried in are wound around my thumbs.
Set the screw and drill it.
Box the weight to kill it,
then spill it in my lungs.
Medicine cabinets in your veins are all that you have left.
Voluntary illness seems to be a perfect death.
Hook the wire through your cheek
and mount it like a frame.
Tape your eyelids up to see
that we are just the same. |
Submission Name: Voluntary Illness
