Every night, I bend my fingers
to birth a small pool in my palm.
I shake two white fish into it from
my orange prescription bottle,

and then send them down the current
of my throat. They sit in my stomach
as an offering to my body. A body that eats
itself, sets itself on fire, rages against

the curse of being my vessel.
And I curse it in return. I exhaust it,
condemn it, commend it, and try
to help it. Together, we are one

angry thing failing to protect itself
over and over. Every night, it eats the fish.
My body is a leviathan,
and I don’t know where it ends

and I begin.