Nothing you swallow
arrives alone.
Food drafts its sugar‑law.
Booze notarizes.
Words cure in the mouth,
ferment into policy.
Air looks innocent…
pure as architecture…
yet circles the ribs
patient as a vulture.
That’s the structure.
Love?
Love comes quoting mercy,
hands soft,
eyes lit like altar glass…
then feeds.
Calls it nurture.
You feel the puncture.
Blood signs beneath the fine print.
You laugh.
Because of course.
Because you wanted it.
Because wanting is the clause
everyone ignores.
Light charges interest.
Dark compounds it.
Living is kneeling
to the blade
that keeps the heart employed.
Sign here.
You lift your throat again…
call the carving growth,
call the scar blood art,
call the hunger holy.
Bleeding.
Loving.
Wanting.
Laughing at the absurdity
of consenting twice.
That’s the architecture.
And still…
you want it.
— UpsilonA
