I eat big emotions with a ravenous hunger

gnawing on skeleton bones from my closet

just in case I missed a bit of sinew or gristle

making sure the osteology does not reassemble

into overwhelming feasts of horror

which must be returned with a clean plate

Where tears get sopped up with the bread of life

blood gets drained from the cups of my history

Scars and scabs are filleted into thin slices

childhood terrors served with wooden-spoon whipping

cream gone sour, bitter, painful to swallow.

I dig through my closet of deconstructed moral injury

dab my satiated lips with a crisp linen serviette

closing the door behind me.