(If you’re using a smartphone, please read in landscape mode to avoid the formatting error.)

During a pandemic of gloom, a star shines capriciously,
and for most people, the sun will one day fail to rise;
but for you, that day comes often as you walk on glass
fragments, rivulets of blood milking your soul—a pool
of poison gripping your ankles. Desiccated down to hollow
bones, your fluids find new residence in a familiar void,
and a parchedness complements an insatiable hunger,
as you’re more and more willing to drink the poison.

This poem was originally published by Anti-Heroin Chic.

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