My gut is burning.
My intestines are in a frying pan
The edges sizzle and the grease sputters.
It’s in my fingertips now and these digits are uncontrollable.
The capsules around my eyes are bursting and the vessels, like roots, are spreading.
My muscles cramp and distort my limbs and I think about what it must look like.
My teeth rear forward and protrude, staggered like an abandoned church organ piano.
Take it all without a word.
Devil, please, find something for these hands to do.
As above, so below.