I cannot taste

My tongue is etched with tiny trees

and roots that tickle my spine in horrific dread.

Soon after I had escalated nearly down to my knees

one hand shaking out calligraphy on tile floors

and a thought that never quite sent me to bed.

I fainted thereafter, metaphors streaking my wrists

and temptation suffered near prostitution in my heart

because it stung more than 

even my toes could ever know,

carrying my weight, bearing its hostility-

entwining my heart with my eyes.

The same twist dangled through my lips

and somehow the same strife and pain

straddled each one of my ribs at every breath I took

and still say I cannot taste my own hunger.