Fungi

My biology professor asked us to identify where mold grows.

I thought about the mold creeping up the sides of the toilet bowl where tonight I lower my head in a quest for catharsis,

to seek forgiveness in stained ceramic

I pictured the spores that float airborne, perhaps like the pieces I shed

with my daily self-destruction,

my half-assed attempts

at second chances

my “forgive me”s

that curdle

in the corners of my nostrils

where my tissues can’t reach.

How can something so rancid be so pure?

Maybe the mold was always myself

because my peace breeds fungi

instead of flowers

and my God clogs pipes

and my ribs they bite

and I worship the vile taste

of bile

like it’s red wine

on Christmas night

And maybe I was always

mold

because my rigid walls

taste sweet like polysaccharides

and my toxic breath

is Satan’s perfume

and my rotting teeth,

they chip like coffee mugs

and butcher knives

and fungi

And maybe my wounds

are entryways

for evil

because I’ve always been a coward

like the pores in the bread

that let the spores in

and maybe it’s not only me

But this quest for control

that is Penicillium,

extending its ugly hyphae

latching on to the crevices

the pores from which I bleed

and maybe like mold

we corrode

ourselves

Maybe I’ve always been mold

because I’ve left my shedding cells

on every pristine surface

like a thief.

Fungi like the dark

and night is my favorite time of day.