David Estringel

Cough Syrup

Bad medicine 
going down,
doled out in loving spoonfuls,
still leaves burns
your sugar can’t temper.
What cruel apothecary —this chemical romance—
that blisters wanting lips
and scalds the tongue,
makes flush the palest cheek—
red hot—
with a heat, synthetic and caustic, 
making me hollow—this playground for echoes—
and smoke-choked.
What to do with this melted skin
that blurs the line between
you and me,
this addictive crash 
of candied pain 
that boils and bubbles 
like black tar heroin in a dirty spoon, 
leaving nothing 
but pitch in its witchery’s wake,
except wait…
…for that next opiate kiss.


Originally published at Fugitives & Futurists

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