There are too many times I have wished myself away, like summer
freckles or the dust behind my bed,
Flickering here and there like an old movie reel.
I am not as small as I once was; but these days I feel
less like an ocean and more like an open wound,
something inside of me sick and holy.
Some days I feel like I must be three hundred years old and
some days I am just a flower pressed deep inside a book,
my petals thin and wide and marked like frail skin;
And I’m tired of undressing as a kind of leaving,
and I’m tired of fearing that I might tear around the edges.
There is a fire growing behind my teeth and it is poison.
I often wonder if I could swallow and light myself up from within.