the sliver ball off my nose rose
fell off & rolled to the next town over.
i am not in control of my gorges or my cavities.
in a past life, i was a bull
or a bushel.
stigmata flower bloom opens
in my palms at night. i hold up my hand
to shield myself from the moon
but the glow bleeds through.
the back of my earrings slip between
floor boards & gather in the basement
like insects. shimmy in the shells.
my uncle has two baby teeth left
in his mouth. they're small & stubby
like grave stones. a pen cap
can be a vessel if you're only transporting
a single strand of hair.
i'm clogging the drain
with my sleeplessness. i'm feeding
the lyric to the bears.
fingernails, like horseshoes,
tossed at the floor. i was never
iron enough to survive. a piece
is always leaving the whole. maybe this is
what it makes to make a self
& wash your face in the tiny sink
each & every day. dust is partially
little ghosts of dead skin.
i tried to take off my skin last week
& only removed my wrists.
a head band can hold a skull together
on those certain days.
i hand a lover the needle
& thread & ask him to enter me slowly
through his favorite opening.
i secretly hoped he's choose
my ear but instead he sewed
my lips shut with just one stich.
the oven is on with the door open.
i'm cooking a chair for dinner.
the town over isn't a town,
it's just a pile of everything
that's passangered me.
shoes & socks & teeth.
when i wake up i'll check
for new craters on my body
& in the cold street outside.