A Sweetish Sting

by Debrenee Adkisson

What I wanted was
the slim drip of crystal
fluid in my right vein,
a candy-coated purple pill,
a glass of ice shards,
a blanket heated by an
oven.
Peace and
relative quiet.
The bats had begun
to fly too low at home,
swooping near my forehead,
shifting strands of hair with
beaten wind.
Things were not just noisy
but unquiet.
This is what drove the
blood
to churn, churn
inside its slim canals,
forced me to the ground and
made his fingers dial up
my only solitude.
Now palm upturned,
black-and-blue to heaven,
I am waiting on the angels
to fly low, whisper-shift
the hair stuck to my forehead.

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