We can quarantine ourselves.
Wait for these fevers to subside, hold out
until the dawn when we might be shaken from this dream.
I don’t think you’d be out of me, yet.
I think I have to drink gasoline and eat lit matches
to be rid of you. Burn myself alive from inside out to be sure
that only ashes are left of this rotten, diseased heart.
They never tell you how to keep the good ones out.
They don’t tell you that corruption tastes like honey going down
but like guilt and acid coming back up.