the stench of ***** corrodes my nostrils
my battle wounds are scratchy and scabbed and
concealed.
raw fingertips; dry, muti-layered, pink and
un-uniform
heavy brain. aching, maimed.
chai tea sips, warm and pure and not a threat
of weight gain.

I see Myself in the upside down and
walk over to her, in the dark, ageless emptiness.
part of me feels that the right thing to do is hold
her hand, but another part of me wants her
to hurt, to cry, to bleed, to improve.
I don't know how to end this sonnet.