i may want to look away before i think.
last night i had dreams of fingers linked; that moment deciding
i would not be
this flower-scented thing. this warm,
deep space for your enjoyment, a body, oppression
incarnate, i cannot think,
why is there
such symbolism in red?
it is a color that kills you
with its reality
what i need is to scream.
give credit where it is due, this
can never exist outside of
how long until i ceased to allow myself
to be resigned to hell?
i wonder, as i dip my fingers into the pool
of water that lies
along the ridge of my collar bone. i am curious
of all the things the dictionary claims
do not exist.
when my fingernails gouge into my cheek
i realize i’ve begun to
equate food with death.
there are three hairs in the indentation
beside my kneecap, untouched by
i left them there to spite you with my humanity.