On Your Expiration Date

The inside of a battery has replaced my insides, a rechargeable battery that needs only time to wait, to settle, rest up and repent itself for its damages to me. The first organic cauldron known to man, brewing steaming acid that fogs up the pipes to my face and my brain. Disoriented becomes me. Hydrochloric becomes my battery. Wringing my face with the fury of terrified confusion, I stumble to balance myself and avoid the sense of placement. Hands on the walls, head to the floor. Hands on my head, battery on the floor. Unable to move. Forcing myself to twist and slither, slowly, surely, uncomfortably, surely, I drag the battery onwards, seemingly for minutes, with the grunting groans of previous twists and slithers. The pain within comparable to the pleasure of making my way, so close I always come, to the final high. Closing in now, in ecstasy hidden beneath the façade of acidic internalizing, I wrap my arms tightly around the curves of my savior, whom I call upon from what I see on TV. My forehead burning, rolling across the dirty underbelly of unmentionables, I realize I feel at a sort of peace, a sort of hopeful swell now numbing the cool darkness inside my skull. But the battery charges me. It, too, dies. Swiftly I lower my face into the face of the savior to give me back a gift of worthiness. A blister in my throat. I wipe the bile on my forearm.