Sounds like crucify.
My hands are bound by his grip
on the plank perpendicular to my toes
that start to curl backwards now.
I binged on memories
of the words words words
and when my ears burned
I imagined you cradling her
on your chest
softly brushing her hair back
and talking about me.
At the summer camp where
Jesus saved me
I picked up a pre-packaged
cereal sealed in a factory
long before my selection.
I peeled away the plastic film
and there where my bowl
of cereal was supposed to be
was a colony of silkworms,
squirming around like
a bunch of tied hogs
in a swimming pool.
I threw up because it grossed me out.
I had no control over it.
When I think about her hair
around your stubby, little fingers
I throw up because it grosses me out.
I have no control over it.
I'm no Will Shortz, but this poem is about you.
There's your clue.