I Live

My breath tastes
of green onion.
Chai isn’t enough
to balm the taste.
Desk lamps shine
on lonely work,
and I want to read
to be taken away,
but the clench
the onion
brings me back.

I ate dinner.
I function. I breathe.
I live.

And it sticks to me
like green onion breath,
overpowering any
cinnamon clove.
I wonder if
Socrates’ hemlock
tasted like Chai
on the way down,
flavored by ideas;
Worthless
ideas.

I ate dinner.
I function. I breathe.
I live.

And nothing will come
back up
to deny me that
sacred privilege.
No God of Love forgives
a one man sacrifice,
and what use is
the darkness, the fall,
if there’s no one there
to catch me?

I ate dinner.
I function. I breathe.
I live.

And I’ll live another day.

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