The Spirochete House

By midnight,
I am tired enough
to disappear.
Not die.
Just go dark.

Close the building.
Kill the lights.
Let every small machine
inside me
finally stop chewing.

But my body
does not believe
in closing time.

The heart keeps working
the night shift,
throwing itself
against my ribs
with a ring of stolen keys
between its teeth.

The nerves spit
inside the walls.

Pain moves room to room
on bare feet,
testing every lock
with its mouth,
leaving little crescents
where it bites.

Somewhere,
an EXIT sign
stays red
like an organ
left glowing
on a butcher’s table.

I lie perfectly still
while everything in me
behaves
like the house is burning.

There is no fire.

Only this body
dragging the alarm
by its hair
through every room,
leaving fingernail marks
in the wallpaper,
blood under the switches.

Again.
Again.
Again.

By three,
my bones feel packed
with wet concrete.

My eyes burn
like they have been
left open too long
in a melting clock.

My muscles jerk
beneath the skin,
small electrical animals
breaking their teeth
against the cage.

There are nights
I can feel my pulse
in places
a pulse has no business being.
Throat.
Teeth.
Fingertips.
The soft meat
behind my eyes.

Sleep stands outside
with one hand
against the glass
while something in my blood
moves through the building
with a mouthful of copper,
changing the locks
as it goes.

My heart
keeps mistaking survival
for an emergency.

KEEPS HURLING ITSELF
AGAINST THE CAGE
OF MY CHEST
LIKE IT CAN SMELL
SOMETHING DEAD
BENEATH THE FLOORBOARDS.

I cannot.
That is worse.

I want to tell it
there is nothing here
worth running from.

But the body
has stopped taking orders.

Morning finds me
exactly where night left me:
lights on,
doors locked,
tongue metallic,
bones aching,
every system
gnawing itself hollow.

The whole body
still awake,
still listening,
like something
inside the walls
has finally learned
my name.