my ribs ring as your truths pound and then sear
like hot irons on open flesh wounds;
your words drive me back against the wall
hopelessly grabbing at my entrails, that you have
so nicely carved up for our consumption.
And no doubt you will find me from
the trail of vomit that reveals I was
unable to keep my secrets down.
Now, as I kneel in my own bile
I can’t help thinking that
this is what I deserved; and
I make a note to remember to thank you
once I gather up what’s left of me.
– Chris George
April 1981
