I’m sorry. You deserve more than a few quick lines
thought up on a lunch break in Central Park;
a sonnet, an epic, a three-part anthological series,
or at least one poem more than the boy
I let kiss my throat rose-bloodied
while you blossomed lesions under my skin.

Sop up what remains of my defenses.
Ipecac my swan song, bloodlet despair
from every open orifice and then spring leaks
from my fingertips. I’ll drip onto the page.

Gorge. Fill yourself up good.
Siphon my marrow for neutrophil gold,
and if my lungs flood in an attempt
to purge the distance, colonize the wound.
Pickaxe my vessels, crater my kidneys,
erect Mt. Everest mass in the well of my belly.

Numb me. Murky my days with floaters,
with a brain frying fog, with a heat that splits
the ache in two. Was it you who built today’s
cottage cheese sky and what are you chorusing
in my bones?

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Zoe Antoine-Paul was born on the Island of Saint Lucia, but now calls Brooklyn home. She likes writing about the city, the beauty in the mundane and macabre, and everyday internal turmoil. Her work has been published in Funicular Magazine, Scapegoat Review, West Trade Review where she served as a reader, and other publications. Zoe can be found on Instagram @space.junkie13.