This labyrinth is a serpent untangling
its belly, and I’m wandering the mess
of stomach, a lost and undigested bone
that won’t pass to the new life.
The thread unravels toward the heart,
and I shed my skin in sacrifice,
cut the memory of stars, of earth,
of humble beginnings, raising glasses,
waking in my own bed, hands still soft.
I’ve lost my way before, but never in such darkness.
There is no difference between dying
and the marks I’ve tallied into the gut.
I should have scratched my name,
slept through the struggle.
The only thing more brutal than the tip of a horn,
is the mouth that swallows whole.