I know the cure.
I keep it in the drawer.
Same hand that locks it
keeps reaching for more.

Three in the morning, tongue gone dry,
thermostat red like a courtroom eye.
Sheets kicked low, phone held close,
your name still warm where my thumb won’t go.
I know better.
That’s the joke.
I read the warning and inhale the smoke.
Doctor in my head says, “Cut the line,”
body says, “One more fever is fine.”
I pace the tile in a borrowed shirt,
water runs cold but it won’t do work.
Every good thought leaves by the stairs,
every bad one pulls up a chair.
You don’t knock.
You don’t need.
You got a key made out of my need.
I call it love when the room turns toxic,
sweat on my neck, that’s fever logic.

Fever logic.
I know it’s bad.
Still I want it
with both hands.
Burn me clean.
Make me sick.
I call it love
when the fever hits.

I had friends write names on a paper plate,
all the reasons I should stay away.
I nodded yes, then I lied by noon,
kept your ghost in a hotel spoon.
You text one dot, and the blood gets loud,
whole room tilts like a fevered crowd.
I make a saint out of every red flag,
make a prayer from a body bag.
No, don’t smile.
That makes it worse.
I turn one look into a verse.
I swear you shine where the facts turn dim,
swear the knife got kind when it entered in.
My mind knows math, but my pulse wants myth,
wants the closed door, wants the bad risk.
I see the wound and still lean close,
like pain got dressed in your coat.

Fever logic.
I know it’s bad.
Still I want it
with both hands.
Burn me clean.
Make me sick.
I call it love
when the fever hits.

Cold cloth.
Hot skin.
I throw the cure out,
then I crawl back in.
Good sense waits
by the bathroom sink.
I pass it once.
I do not drink.

Fever logic.
I know it’s bad.
Still I want it
with both hands.
Burn me clean.
Make me sick.
I called it love—
it was fever talking.

Morning finds the glass untouched.
Pill cap turned.
Curtains shut.
I know the cure.
I leave it there.