My wounds have more flavour with a little bit of salt.
And my trauma is so much better when it’s fresher.
Have a taste of my tears, my sweet syrupy fears.
Or the crunch of anxious bones,
the meaty toughness of being alone.
Then gulp it all down with my rusty blood,
rough against the tongue and earthy like mud.
My dreams have a real kick,
but the heat of the subconscious can make you sick.
If my past is just the starter, then my present is the main.
A really hearty meal with a side of overcooked brain.