Distillates.

i drown in petroleum distillates.
hands cracked to the point of blood.
the room with the low ceilings and concrete floors leaves me empty.
yet every day every hour i am there.

i feel, i think, i hear sounds i know inside and out
they ring over and over again.
the oil and dust cloud my eyes

i am whole, driven, independent and mad
my stomach burns with the black liquid
weeping without tears
it burns and yet no where do i feel so at home