Once in every five days,
I recognize I’m letting sugar eat me alive.

Sugar bluffs me at my tongue, then slinks down my throat
and hides, burrowing behind my swelling sides.
Sugar flies in my blood and bangs against bone
like rocks on a windowpane, and it builds
wherever it breaks and bends. Sugar builds itself
up, a rounded, shimmering cell, high and high upon high,
all over inside.

But I think things through.
So I reach inside my chest
where my rubber heart beats my veins blue.
I throw aside bone and brain and skin
to lie further into me,
to some cranny where some sugar cubes bind
their sides against me. I pluck the things out,
then fasten up my anatomy.

I have stitches a mile wide, and an empty stomach,
after all, for now.


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