Courtesy: Rosemary Donahue Sculpture: Amanda Ross Ho

Courtesy: Rosemary Donahue
Sculpture: Amanda Ross Ho

glitter is in the bowl. autonomous,
i say.
flicking my tongue against my own nose.
a face is mirrored in my mind, another face,
beside my own, or rather
the face i imagine i have, distorted cruelly.
i think that i love the face
(the first one)
and kiss it. glitter sticks to my nipples.
i pick at hair surrounding areolae.
black wire tug of war slides from clutching skin follicle sticks
on like glitter sticks on
mind wanders
back to face
imagines it loves the face
(i imagine)
i have
i swallow the hair and glitter
my belly bursting
open and flowing out
out rivers of tears, glistening
with oil and rainbows, blood and bile,
a ball of hair and glitter and knives matted
my skin raw with overeager grooming
their skin waiting
there there there there there there
to be licked.


squeeze three days’ grease
from my hair
gathered in a cup
swirled stirred
too many drops
my skin sinking into
the deep places the hiding places
the closed spaces i cannot enter
and guard jealously
like a jackal
roaming the foot of the mountain as i twist
on my back foot
turning away
and again away from away.
i can’t say.
my tongue locks on the words
slip into each other
forms slip into each other
and i can’t say,
blind like a wave slipping into
a gawking chasm, o anime crudeli,
o anime crudeli, why have i abandoned
in a heap of crusts
crumbling gnawing
the back of a frozen skull
my teeth crumbling crusts
and the wind sighs
the wind sighs
the wind sighs
o anime crudeli
what crumbling gate describes hope
as backhanded bands
dragging three days’ sojourn
backwards through pitch
into water
into light