my cheeks redden with the wind, the heat, your words, my pure exhaustion. I'm tired of seething, reaching for perfection, bleeding out into the clinical orifices of a hospital, or a school of psychiatry, on the spot sitting in there, all blue and stung. do you not hear me when I tell you it's monstrous? I'll try to hide my hands in the bedsheets for they've grown into molluscs hard shelled and wrinkled, my figure a lumbering morphed thing, then a pin prick in air, wrists that could snap, mouth too small, pert, moon faced, screaming skin, but you don't, you don't hear me when I'm counting, when I'm cleaning, scrubbing my hands raw, scratching my arms bloody, but not enough to really hurt.
I think you know I could go on and on, until finally it clicks, and we'll agree silently that you should. oh breathe, we'll go from the beginning.
YOU ARE READING
jolie memphis
PoetrySuzanne led me over to the gap, that pale opaque liquid seeping into my skin-honey, I realised. she leaned in close, voice warm and soft, the scent of aniseed on her breath. you can be anyone you want, she whispered. I closed my eyes. who are yo...
