Poetry

Dig

by

Heather Cunningham

I had to dig deep.

I had to travel down my throat, past my heart, to my stomach
to give you what you want.

Endlessly, resentfully trying to feed the starving Ego
Never full.
Infinitely empty.

There is nothing left for a God to give.
Nothing left for you to take.

There is no veil to be lifted.
No epiphany to be had.

In the vein of my passive voice
I keep digging.

I binge.

I cringe.

Agony becomes ecstasy.

Bleeding becomes easy,
to give you what you want.

I am down the drain as your fruitless words trickle from a broken faucet.

I am sick of the smell.

I am possessed and appalled by your existence
and still waiting for my own.