A January Summer In July

Night I am cold, though viscera burning, I have pierced on a spit my torso turning. Supposedly decomposing, et cetera; words as per usual, concerning; Do suggest a plethora, array, of conjured synonyms. Inspire in me apathy, disinterest; say, so that I can find Sleep. But once darkness fell, I peeked under my pillow for it, and it was not there. I even scrabbled around the flesh folds of dirtied blankets; though I was compelled to make the gallant effort of shifting the heft of my ungainly abdomen to one side; My hand, adjoined in precarity, reached for my slowly pickling liver in its jar on the shelf. Now you and I acquainted in the present tense; I extend my limbs, slender, so that you can't touch the lazy pockets of fat inhabiting what I still seem to think is my Body, stripping me of what could have been a January summer in July; Please help me fall asleep tonight in my own skin. I clutch shards of ragged glass in my fists and take a decadent sip from my bleeding palms; these are metaphors flattened in tar and exhaustion, and this is grief for images that will never be seen; And my mind is stood hiding behind the curtain. Drunkenly I tumble into the arms of a Thesaurus with a mocking face, and a man who loves for sport 26.01.2021, for Brian Strand's All Yours (Jan 26)