Liquid Fire

drink up little one.

The feeling is fleeting,
I wished it away in a white washed basin,
the flesh stinging and tightening,
and the filth came off thick and black.

I tossed and turned;
blank faces spun into mixed hues and colours.
I cried into my pillow.
I could not escape.

Sometimes liquid fire is the best,
it cauterizes my internal wounds.
No one will know
how fleeting this feeling truly is.

Author's Note

do your worst.

Reviews

[r. f. jordan]

deeply imagistic, as if turmoil were strapped to turbines, this piece stands into the reader right away. depite the impending imprisonment closing the second stanza, and how life may resemble blackouts, i find hope in the third stanza that the pain might stop the bleeding. very well done.