they are the recurring that
scatter like cockroaches when
the sun rises in the mess; they rest
in synap-crevices and whisper
chemical impulse to overdose,
to draw an unbidden hand against
the skin that tempts—

and it always felt better to give
than to get because you never
liked to have our eyes on you,
hateful crawling nuisance in the
give of your flesh, reminding
you— it never felt bad...

does it hurt, when i scratch my
gums until they bleed to rid
myself of your eggs? festering
devils, you are cowards of the
darkest places and speak only

when you let us, when
you're weakest, when you face
the things you loathe and you've
never hated anyone more than
you hate yourself—

but i can always turn on
the light.