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.