You were born

with (statistically)

no chance

You were born

into soft noise

and sickness

What good is

what little

quiet that

remains?

against the

onslaught of

glowing screens

and hyper-present

noise, outlined

in neon

These days

you nurture

all you have

left of your

animal hurt

Fueling an

acid flux,

a nausea

at the seat

of yr soul,

an anti-

Kundalini,

Sit with it

and hold it

like a secret,

like a poison

that loves u

too closely, that

licks behind ur

ears like a

wayward flame-

child,

a friend that

nobody else

has