roots have grown
deep into my gullet,

and they spill
a bitter sapor -
it slithers 'round
my flaxen jaws,

and
it's venom runs
rampant down
my vertebrae.

frigid is
the liquid
that kisses
my spine,

and
crawls under
my pallid,
sickly skin.

tenuous is
the air that
reverberates
about my
hardened
temples,

the ones
that pound
and scream
and turn to
sewage

when
confronted.

air, putrid
and
stomach, curdled -

i awoke with
metallic reek
swimming
behind my
bottom lip.

this is how
it's roots are grown -

how its rancid fruit
ripens in my
insipid darkness.