Dragon | a poem
There’s fire in my abdomen,
fueling the agony, that nauseous hunger, the same dissatisfaction that boils in bellies of dragons.
Smooth smoke billows upward to flow through my mouth,
But my mouth is closed; there is no escape.
Plumes of brassy brume ascend into my head, behind my eyes, where they burn every gland, singe every neuron, char every thought.
There’s oil in my lungs, heavy heaps of sludge,
hindering my breathing, leaking into everything I touch, see, hear, feel, taste. My tongue is coated in the stuff, slippery and numb.
(Every time I pick up a pen,
oil seeps to the surface of my skin,
soiling paper and foiling all my plans to create a chasm of words, a safe place to rest my head.
These words are dead.
Drenched in gasoline, it seems they’re better off burning from beginning to end.)
I’ll grow scales and a tail.
My tongue will be accustomed to oil and flame;
my heart will pump nothing but gasoline.I’ll be a demon so slick you won’t even blink before I sink my teeth into your flesh; more or less, I’ll be a beast who feasts on memories.