It cakes the inside of your mouth like plaster.
Thick. Chalky. Your tongue rubs against it
but there is not enough pressure to scrape it away
and so it remains.
You swallow, hoping to choke it down,
hoping that if you tolerate it long enough
- just one more swallow should do it - that maybe
the acid in your stomach will feast for the last time.
It harbors no disillusions the way you do -
it knows it is safe, that it will line your insides like lead paint
until the passage of time has eroded your flesh and
left you as nothing but a pile of brittle bones and
flakes of the things you could never manage
to push from between your teeth, the truth you tried to infuse
into all of your subliminal meanings. It’s a hundred years later
and no one knows what you meant to say.