I’ve been bottling myself up
To drink myself back down.
In glass gallon bottles,
Then storing them in the fridge.
Tell me again how long it takes to ferment something like this. 
See I've been packing down so hard with yeast and sugar,
But it doesn't smell to me like the burn of  liquor,
It smells like the type of fire that makes candles cry,
That our parents told us not to play with,
This is burning that pulls out roots instead of petals.
This is not the flame you light to watch a body braise itself in the beating of its heart over it.
Not one that knows the lyrics to remind us of the song our chests are pounding their feet to.
This heat only knows how to silence the lips on our thighs wearing blood stain by leaving our bodies in the ashtray with it.
This recipe for fermentation,
Has started feeling more like a prayer,
From someone who hasn't found themselves believing in god.
Because maybe god only knows how to hand out hope and no answers.
This recipe asks for a great deal of hope.
And a shovel.
And a body.
To dig graves inside ourselves to bury things very much so still alive,
So that we can walk along them in hopes they will press against the gates of our skin,
Will be easier to drink down.
Maybe I'm just growing impatient.
But I’ve got this fridge,
That’s really just a ribcage,
Full of bottles and no more space,
So what should I do now?
Do I pour all of myself out down the drain?
Or rain it down my throat,
Wait for the smoke,
To know it's burning me away.