Pineapples are in my head

where bromelain eats away

at gray matter oozing

through cracked lips.

And I wonder. Do they feel me?

The pigs who render my intestines

into coiled butterflies.

Do they hear me? Do they know?

As pickaxes hack at my cortex

where my self esteem

chips chips chips

into cups brimming

with my essence. Do they know?

Can they see? That I barely hold on.

With rampaging stallions for feet.

Do they fear where I go?