.

Let it come up, rise, my part.
Whatever it is, I can’t digest or detoxify
properly.
Damn, liver.
(Loyalty, it’s not your fault)
Until several
. . . . .
Appear under my chin and neck and then I think
Shit, kidneys
Both on either side, between me, complaining and I just can’t.

Because this goes beyond physicality and chasing the point
of what I really don’t get,
Reading into every line and mark and hole and grated texture under shadow because there it hits,
in that wrinkle and age and rip I can’t stop from parting.
Because I know I’m not smooth enough to be a
(dot)
In a world that doesn’t care
(about dots)
In a world that I wish would not look at me
(like a dot)

Until I hit a harder point, which flares up like a rash on my soul telling me to turn on the camera
until I learn that this
.
Means. Something.