The cold cradled the skin
of my ribs as I sat there.
The precision in the air
is surgical—hair strands felt,
every inch wet from sweat.
How was I human
when all I felt was industrial?
How is it a heart when
it’s a whirring gear that drags,
and drags, and drags?
My father’s rusts never left
my blood; I wish I could
regulate for the both of us,
deoxidize through drugs,
be redeemed through
psychiatry, be over it.
When I took the gulp
the oscillation did not stop—
the cool steel of suspension
the terror of being human.
I mechanize these words
as I do my being,
but all I want to say is this—
As my throat grits the pill,
who am I without the fear?
