March is made of madness,

butterflies that flutter
against my brain, my
heart, a wasp in
a jar

my voice shakes,
I drink cheap cider
that burns my insides,
from dented cans
that cut my lips

earning war wounds
as I try to cover
my battle scars

sleep chases me
and I hide in doorways,
dressed in black and blending,
begging the flickering
orange streetlights
to swallow me

his serpents tongue
licks my ear

soft, quiet and deadly

the fruit I should never
have eaten rises in my throat,
like anger

threatening to flee

and I have no choice
but to swallow
it