You sit on the holy hollow thrown in my body. 
Calling for salvation, claiming camaraderie

The internal tick I tend to mend,
sits on my chest, sinks into my irises.

A sip, a snort, a huff whisper safe promises.

You are the thumb I suck singing lullabies to sleeping peace, 
the knife I carry down dark streets.

You are the doctor I call when I break my arm,
the scarf I wear in winter storms.

But too,

You are the pot hole in main streets,
and a broken belt in the drivers seat,
the sour milk in my fridge when I make English tea.
You've put salt in my sugar.

You are the feet that fall asleep in a moment of danger.

You are a beautiful thought waiting to unfold on black paper.

You sit on the holy hollow thrown in my body.
Commanding toxic tensions, comforting ill redemptions.

But

The kingdom we live in is drinking resilience,
mind stepping back into its brilliance.

You still sit on the holy thrown in my body.
But I too fight for survival
and you still dable with devils. 

But the battles I face are no longer hollow,
and sometimes I miss the comfort of denial.