My sickness has carved out the print from my index finger,
the digit easiest to abuse.
With bitten, jagged nails and crooked teeth,
I drew back so many layers of myself;
healing cannot restore every minuscule caldera, every scar of
the continental drift of my own gene pool.
Microscopic mountains are wiped clean,
as my body seeks revenge upon my DNA
(for making me this way,)
fighting invisible threats coded into me,
remnants of a primal time in history.
Like a parasite sick on it host,
my sickness attacks from the inside out,
carving itself an escape route,
(just as it has carved out the print
from my index finger.)
YOU ARE READING
supine thoughts
PoetryPoetry exploring thoughts into love, sexuality, mental health and navigating the modern world.
