Phantom Pains

A poem.

Have you felt the type of hangover 
born from shadows of digested poisons past—
a nagging panic in the chest

just above a scar-tissue core
which scarcely feels itself breathe
but jolts electric when touched off-guard

and splashed some water on your face
lingered long in the mirror to remember who you are
and wondered: 

if you amputate a broken limb
does it ever truly feel like there is nothing there?