Cure - Akash Ali
Updated: Mar 11
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
My teeth obediently bite on what they can,
c r a c k
between the off-white squares.
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.
Akash is a 21-year-old Pakistani poet from Manchester who started writing few months