cyst by jae dyche

It’s approximately the size of a thumbnail,
an inch from my pubic bone, the gelatinous
fatty mass; I let it fester as if I’d be incomplete
without it, though the sac encompassing
it swells with green-yellow puss, stenches
like eggs left in the garbage can.
Before showers, I’d squeeze on the bulge,
the second headlet between my thighs,
alternate angles of approach, its core undulating
until eruption, feel the drainage and blood,
almost masturbatory as if I were the man
who bit my lip. He dug through the waste bin
for Kleenexes of an ex-girlfriend who suffered from
habitual nose bleeds. He licked the tissue,
its fibers and the metallic taste of blood—the most
vital fluid—gratifying his desperate mouth.
I am guilty of this want as well, swallowing
secretion, true human thirst for the whole body.
 
 
Jae Dyche lives in Keyser, WV/College Park, MD and is a MFA (poetry concentration) candidate at the University of Maryland. She also co-coordinates and co-hosts Mock Turtle reading series in Washington, DC. She is published in Calliope, Backbone Mountain Review, The Smoking Poet, and Banango Street. She finds the most inspiration in the body, especially the mouth. She loves your mouth, thinks it’s quite beautiful. She thinks you are beautiful.