Carly Xagas

what is this unsteady?

an unbalance unfamiliar
it’s not a rock and a sway
(think: a Ferris wheel cage)
the profundity staged

the nausea, it comes
but weak, just like bile:
it burns my esophagus
like tissue on fire

(tissue like paper
or tissue like skin
the flammability pierces
and ravages still)

my fingers, they’re calloused
from years of attempting,
worked to their cores
(but a wall’s been a-growing)

my retina my pupil
the light comes in lightly
i see it so clearly
and so linearly

but the earth is so rounded
edges and corners not pointy;
this fog is a blanket
and it’s flitting and frightening.

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