The Poison Works
The poison works, like an intravenous
Rohypnol drip, snaking its insidious
track from my heart through the capillaries
of my lips, my hands, my extremities.
Thus am I shackled to this fever dream,
unable to move but condemned to feel
through this, the solitary cell that is
my flesh - to feel each touch, each vagrant kiss,
each savage violation, as you brand
my skin with crosses of fire. Hope is drained
from me like blood; faded hope, for when
this unrelenting purgatory ends,
when my inviolate spirit leaves all this
behind, this shell, this fragile chrysalis.