1-1-9

The lands on which I stand are tainted.

Painted green with disease.

The disease is greed.

The fever that follows: violence.

Sickness.

Words written in the dirt, turned to mud by blood of bodies black –

Plasma summoned to the surface.

Sickness.

Feel it run through our veins.

Feel it crash, eroding cell walls where the limbs turn.

The contours of flesh guide it back for circulation.

But not without resistance.

In the resistance I realize I’ve known the feeling.

Realize the sickness has always run through those veins.

And now we’ve been cut open.

The blade – slash – wound agape.

Flowing, pouring, dripping.

Splash.

Dip my toe before I think to get the noose.

Tie the knot.

I'm not fast enough.

It’s not tight enough.

I'm too late.

Is the world really spinning or am I just dizzy?

Crash.

Overcome the weight to pull the eyes open.

Hand over hand, reeling, each lid an anchor.

Exposed to the light. Dilated black.

Shake.

Wake up sick and now the sickness is sadness.

Blink and now the sickness feels like fear.

Which do I prefer?

The fear or the sadness?

Blink.

The sickness transforms to hatred.

Do I blink again or do I keep it as hatred?

Tilt the cover or let it bubble?

For then there’s no room for the fear or the sadness.

I’ll let it be hatred.

The sickness takes over.

My muscles belong to it.

My mind is one with it.

Hatred takes shape.

Do you hear a whistle?

Fists.

Fingers wrap metal and twitch with power the soul never learned to control.

Hands digging through the rubble, dirt beneath the nails.

I dig for a different kind of sickness – my only hope to remedy the sickness I feel.

Infect the infection.

It has always been sickness

And the sickness becomes hatred.

Sacred.

What is sacred?

Is sickness sacred?

Is hatred sacred?

What is sacred?

Where am I?

Who are we?

Where am I?

Sickness.

Hatred. Fear. Sadness.

What are they?

And what are they doing here?

To whom do they belong?

God, heal our wound.

Keep the tainted blood inside me.