Cure - Akash Ali

This love is a hospital bed,

I’m tied to it with leather belts.

You both scream you have a cure for my illness.

It’s always been 2 against 1,

the whole city can’t be mad,

there must be something wrong with my brain.

In your scrubs; overdosed I spot specks of you.

This love smells too heavy and repulsive,

like cleaning detergent everywhere.

I miss the sunny scent of orange peel,

it’s skin undressing with the sound of a plaster ripping,

and I miss the sugar glazing my tongue.

Now you both force my jaw open

into a 90-degree angle,

piles and piles of shingles until

my mouth holds a mountain of your poison.

You let go of my jaw and like a stapler

it

shuts

the

fuck

up.

My teeth obediently bite on what they can,

c

r

a

c

k

c r a c k

crackling

between the off-white squares.

I choke

on them pieces

and spit out

the metallic blood.

Your voice echoes: eat up,

it’s only popcorn and cherry syrup.

I can taste my own murder.

Bio:

Akash is a 21-year-old Pakistani poet from Manchester who started writing few months

back. He has work published in The Open Culture Collective, Resurrection mag, Tealight press,

and forthcoming in the Pocketfirepresents.