All brine and piss and vinegar,

my mouth is raw.

The pages full of false knowledge

blame the ‘lies’ that my tongue spits.

 
Blisters appear with each spiteful word,

spat at you in a moment of rage.

Anger trapped, desperate for an escape.

They are your lies not mine.

 

Tongue raw from yesterday’s drinks,

burnt and scraped with comfort eats.

Morsels that last a moment,

before they decay and rot.

 

I cannot taste anything but bile,

and vinegar and pain.

I seek the comfort of cold, smooth

kind and compassionate words.

 

My mouth is silenced,

I wake with it glued tight,

a mess of brown clotted blood,

teeth caked in earthy dried fluid.

 

But from inside there is something,

spun from a silver thread.

It speaks truth through your lies.

It’s a tale yet to be told.

 

‘All brine and piss and vinegar’  is borrowed from The Decemberist’s song “Grace Cathedral Hill”

The book that told me ulcers are caused by lies also told the reader period pain was caused by not embracing being a woman enough. I rarely lie, any more than anyone else. I love being a woman. Go figure? It’s like trying to be rescued by a Christian who keeps on insisting my auto immune is because I don’t believe in god. I don’t. Theres some proper drivel out there. I choose to follow my heart.