your search for salvation,
yes it tears you apart-
your hands on your chin and
your cheeks the colour of carnation:

the poisonous liquid milk you swallowed and
that leaves you hoping for
tentative
tendencies that aren't yours, made you
turn traitorous
towards your self.

but it doesn't work- instead, it
burns;

down your throat, on your ribs,
down your hips and
on your lips.
downing a galore and gallons more,

you lick your teeth and taste your
disappointment; that stands contrary to the
dedication you discerned in your brain.

'why?' you sob as you look to the sky.
'why me?' you ask yourself,
waiting for some sort of answer-
within the last and next aeons, you
won't receive one.

once, you swore
that you'd heard the streets whisper
onomatopoeias into your ears,

now,
you are lying,
napping on cold, black concrete.