My words don't hit home for me anymore.
They don't hit home like they used to.
The brisk stabs of pain sprawling,
Stretching inwards, a sternness in my hips
Hunt for a budding takeover in the center of my pelvis,
This stomach ache performs a concert
In my system at full volume, and my walls?
Those are gone;
The racket of this band mangled my flesh -
Stretch marks and wrinkles and splotches of damaged skin,
A colony of bruises like water and mold beneath dried paint.
The belly of this wave folds and quivers
And each time I try to be free of this;

Before, I could ***** it out.
Before, my chills - that cool, clammy sweat -
Would break at a night's turn.
In burps and in sneezes and in gurgles
My words would slip off my tongue as bile
Would rise in my throat at the command of my gag,
And they, my words,
Would flow through the cartridge of my pen like ink
Awaiting the heat of my palm to paste them onto paper -
My words' release would exude a warmth down my body like ginger tea
But, none of this happens anymore.
I feel no heat
No comfort.