a pit can only grow
when chemical weathering is
its only mechanism
burrowed in chest cavities
a home for ants
to dig and delve
into my lungs
and the soot blackens
what was once pink and ripe and lush
i think of hemingway
and his shadows
when he said there is a nice clean place
and i think back to where heaven was
even then amongst the gravel
but each day
i am met with the agony of ant bites
lingering and red and itchy
and the pit keeps growing
like an epidemic devoid of control
so i sit here
in silence
and now i let the ants take their turn to feed on me
because it is only fair
to let them devour me
in the way i have devoured you