The Purge
(from a fevered prophet)
It began with a virus.
The voice cracked—
then the illusions.
Illness wasn’t a curse.
It was interruption.
A reset.
Goals, amputated.
Then the spores.
A mirror.
Staring into my site
like it might confess.
Saw my soul
pop-up.
Selling myself—
my gift—
cheaply.
Embarrassingly.
Vomited—violently.
Not from nausea,
but from clarity.
Now: generosity.
Disappear into the gift.
Give my silence—
subtract a voice from the cacophony.
What does a man become
when he stops begging to be seen?
A Second Purge
Later.
Vomited—viciously.
Bile rose surveying the space.
Not from hidden clutter,
but from the spell it cast:
scarcity.
redundancy.
fear disguised as preparation.
A declaration to soon-to-be wreckage:
“I made this mess.
I need to clean it.”
Then louder:
“This won’t be easy.
Prove your worth and survive.”
Two days.
Tossed. Given. Burned.
Not just cleaned—cleared.
Every item removed
took a piece of panic with it.
Closet by closet,
shelf by shelf,
drawer by drawer—
Tore open the dark
and found a spine.
What does a man become
when divorced from possessions?