Still Living

Art thou the itch I scratch?

heathen exsanguination—

It breeds

under my skin, under my skin

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From where does it come?

Why won’t it break through?

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They stand and lick,

lick the bowl clean of blood

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Where is my sacrificial gift?

thee—

the flea,

or the itch?

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For if I were the flea,

I would have agency

over the blood,

the drops

that hit my throat—

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But if it is true

I am the itch:

scratch me,

dig deep,

and burrow

to search out

the bloodlust—

to tear from my flesh

anything, still

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Still living

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for the adulation—

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as blood and bile pour