Failed Negotiations--an infection

[So I posted an infection Shane Guthrie wrote on one of my poems, so at the prompting of Graham Isaac, I wrote one based on one of his. I'd be happy to hear your thoughts.]

(Shane's Poem)
Some days it feels like
I'm burning down a forest
Then planting a tree

My infection (failed Negotiations)

Somedays it feels like
corduroy, others it feels like linoleum
the weather seems to have an affect
it usually hangs out near my knees.
I'm still trying to figure out exactly what it is.

I've been tracking it
through cities, valleys,
mountains and deserts.
It's huge--I saw it once,
fangs like javelins
sledge-hammer claws
and a real mean look
on it's half dozen glazed over eyes.
I've tracked it here, to this wood
I don't think I can kill it
but I won't let it hide--
I'm burning down a forest
leaving the thing to rest
in the embers.

I think it's an urge
to leave, to run,
to hit restart, to die.
It's 2 am puking
in an effort to exorcise
a night of Caucasians
or boxed wine.
It's there, sleeping
restless--tossing and turning
just an inch under conscious.

I'm digging a hole
deep and narrow,
right down through my esophagus
straight through to my knees.
Tomorrow I'll throw it down
wait to here it hit bottom,
pile dirt, concrete,
fire and hope on top.
I'm digging a hole
then planting a tree
to trap it, to give it a gravestone
that will have flowers in spring
and apples in fall.
I'll let it suffocate and hopefully
die in a place that I will forget.

This is a failed negotiation
with a self that won't compromise
or listen to reason.
This isn't a solution
it's a last resort.