The Taste

I bit the inside of my cheek

while eating cereal. Blood

on my tongue. The ache

immediate. I could

stop running my tongue there,

but I won't. The bruise

is tender, insistent,

and the salt taste, the ruse

that keeps me paying attention

to the wound I made myself.

Every swallow, the tension

reminds me. The shelf

of my mouth changed shape,

swollen slightly, different now.

The tongue won't escape

it. Returns to the plow

of the wound, the salt blood,

the small rebellion

of my own mouth. The mud

of pain, the rebellion

of not letting it heal.

Each day the swelling goes down

but I keep it real,

keep touching the town

of the bruise, keep tasting

it, keep making sure

I remember. The lasting

part is I'm sure

I'll do it again.