it tastes like burnt toast—

slightly too much of a good thing—

& it sounds like a siren with a heartbeat that can’t stop from boiling over.

it feels like a marathon,

but it aches like a sprint;

like you’ve been running for days,

but you never stopped going full speed ahead. 

& its weight is that of the sword you carry to slay your dragons at dusk.

the scent is that of the caked on grease beneath the burner you typically use for boiling water for tea,

after you’ve set it aflame, of course.

but its movement is most nauseating:
it writhes in the back of your throat—

taunting both your creativity and your mental health,

(but it is always a hit&run;).

& its course through your shabby, lonely, pathetic little dwelling place

is both short & long;

you welcome its company after living alone,

but you drown it in angst & ardor.