this age-old choke

you spend years wondering if this
is the soil you want to shoulder,
the soil you want to be shouldered by.

the paroxysm of wanting a death
does not come to you as pinprick but one
stretched out into idiosyncrasy for
an entire people.
your entire people
wanting
      death. 

theirs
                   or
                                 theirs.

to kill or
                                                       to die. 

you            know

something                       must                  die.

the emotion rises within you
like a biting pledge. you want to lay claim.
say your words. shed your
skin but stop the sacrificed dead
from dying. the parched throats
from licking rotten wounds 

of the parasites

to water their children. 

but you can't.

you want to husk the lumbering layers of torment
the ones you wear to school. to have
lunch with your mother. to meet
your friend seconds before the rupture
you have been warned about since childhood
finally flies through your flesh

and nearly takes you.

but you can’t.