Cures

Harvesting moments. Saw-toothed and awkward conversations. Like adolescent bodies caught in the transition from unripe to mature. The more you conceal the changes, the more apparent they become.

Belted throats frantic with words unspoken. You swallow your thoughts with every breath. Wondering if they've heard any of what you haven't said. And notches. So many holes punched in. To accomodate every extreme of our gluttony and our starvation.

Hope not withstanding we rush the altar of our deepest fears. To find solace in our own worst predictions for ourselves.

It's easy to feel it once it's gone. Linger with it like the smoke does over your head. As you inhale the poison and breathe it out again.

But there. In the moment. With them. The blood pooling in your palms. You just pull down your sleeves so they won't know. Because you want them to be free to leave. And only to stay if that's what they always would've chosen.

It doesn't have to hurt unless you want it that much. And how could you. Knowing even if you did. It won't have to hurt at all if you just have the right medicine.

Seomtimes the cure only makes you worse. And the disease is the only thing that can make you well again.