fixation

day six since you called. 

i have nearly purged

myself of food in a failing 

campaign to quiet the flies. they buzz

through the most uncanny arteries, 

flitting into and out of 

the blood. passageways

lost to regret become real 

only when their wings 

beat against 

my veins. 

each time I indulge them with fruit

rinds left to rot and crumbs sprinkled, 

i feel a pulse where

the wounds are— the points of 

entry and exit. feeling is all. to look is to blur

the image. 

each time I remember you,

i regain the teenage sensation of losing 

control; so distinct 

from the imminent madness of being overrun 

by these pests. 

then, when i still felt young, 

i fantasized about living in a hobbit hole

not unlike the mice who’ve made a home

in my gaping mouth. now i only fantasize about 

dying realities.