Size / / /

By tomorrow I'll be rewritten,
a better me will be here,
one that will forget to mourn
the absence of this stinking fear.

Every movement will be reset,
run not too fast nor too slow.
They'll check for leaks, dry the wet
patches, plug every numeric overflow.

They say that it's just a tweak,
like my frontal lobe's a baby's cheek.
The strong always devour the weak,
and swallow, grow hard and sleek.

And yet,

down in my sub sub sub
down in the pit that watches
with its wounded black eyes,
its mouth cringed in resentment.
It extends its snake like fingers
across my cheek—
a ghoul's version of a caress.
I'll take care of you
it says.
There's an undying you inside me
that burns burns burns,
and when I finally set you free— 
you'll run riot among your enemies,
walk down dimensions that their flesh
can't even feel,
toss the bullying sun back at itself
from those bright metal eyes,
and swim home to me across the void
like the first salmon spawning.

Rohinton Daruwala lives and works in Pune, India. He tweets as @wordbandar and blogs at His first collection of poems is The Sand Libraries of Timbuktu (Speaking Tiger 2016). His work has previously appeared in Strange Horizons, New Myths, Star*Line, Liminality, Through the Gate, and Silver Blade.
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