I used to be an empty room.
Now, I’m filled with things,
stored with things,
so many things
to dust.

I spent the winter
you laugh when I mention psychosis,
but I meant it.
I spent the winter
stuck in a childhood drawl
where I mumbled yeah,
where I hid my hair and pants behind my dollhouse.
where I was on all fours in a daybed
fighting a pretty bad yeast infection
where I was floating outside of myself,
watching him unfurl his excerebration process
without anesthesia.
what becomes of dissociative disorder
when resolved?
unhinged trauma.

I’m an infidel
that can’t keep her mouth shut,
her breasts covered.
Once I was a lush terrain
but someone drove me to the sand and  buried me
beneath steaming plains,
sewed my lips,
said no complaints!
We must
imagine all the water that my life,
had it blossomed to a greater age,
would have had us taste.
We’d dive below the breaking point
to slurp up the pacifying waves
ride the moon,
let it go.
But someone filled me with their scorching skies,
their starless nights,
their hot mirages
until the holes were pouring blood,
pouring hurts,
pouring cries.
Hung and dried and scared of Earth,
I started roaming giant sandboxes
following the Atlantic’s soporific siren voice
to find something that called to me
long ago.
Something vague.

I’m unwrapping the resin layer,
I’m coughing up the heads of dolls,
I’m moistening the cipher.
I’m coming back, I’m coming
I’m bandages off,
walking forward.
This is how they’d rather have it.
I once was a space of bright, blue lakes,
but now I’m bursting with black magic

and I am rabid.




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