see, you were a doctor.
see, I was a virus, a tumor, an obstacle
to your breathing, swallowing and
suctioned to you with a surplus of pixie dust
(but of course, you didn’t know that
because magic isn’t real, right?)
see, an atheist told me that eyes
really are windows to the soul, so I scrubbed
your irises with antiseptic until they gleamed
but it seems that I forgot to clean my own.
I found something rather undesirable
and slipped through your optic nerve.
see, I almost forgot about the whole “soul” part
and found a home in the crevices of your gyri.
sure, it was deep and it was dark
but you taught me the surgeon’s alphabet
in anagrams in order to whisper pretty things
that people seem to worry about.
see, around here people have tasted pluots
and glycerin and roses in your throat.
all I found were dead ends
in hidden caves, deep inside cavities.
all I found was a uvula never belonged to me.
so now whomever you Hollywood-smile at
will see me here: attached to the back
of your mouth, hanging like sour apples
and growing only the best remedies.