Everything butI have been the waterline,sea-foamed and sea-frothed,the ankles of the West Coast,rib bones and wrists of the East,the sinew where the whalesmade echoes in the heat.I have been everything but yours,have known more about the Revolutionthan your skin, more about theroad atlas than the back of your hands.There have been yearsworth talking about betweenour place mats, but the water glasseschat instead, they slur sonar songsin the evening while we watch silentmashed potatoes squirm on our plates.I have been the branches acrossthe plain states and belts of cornpulled thin at my roots and deeply riftedin my joints while you crossed themby train, looking for someplacewhere no one thought to ask questions.
Anatomy of a DeadgirlMy skeleton is a barbed wire framework glossed over with spun glass and glitter-glue stars.(Break it.)My skin is melted magma, sizzling upon contact and twisting in imperfections and pimples and moles.(Burn it.)My blood is poisoned snake's venom, thick black sludge that is retracted slowly by a razor's gnawing gore, withdrawn from a well deep within my soul.(Bleed it.)My organs are burbling instruments, bubbling a glutinous rhythm.(Oust it.)My hands are hole-filled gloves sewn on to stubby, chubby stumps of arms.(Cut it.)My ribcage is a birdcage, trapping the anxiously fluttering butterfly that is trapped within my heart and desire.(Lock it.)My tongue is sandpaper, smoothing my words to no more than sawdust, falling limply to the floor in a kind of morose rain.(Trap it.)My brain is dust- and muck-filled [cobwebs stretched across those cells that change the mood], monster occupied, and afraid to think.(Kill it.)My eyes oscillate, glazed over with clouds and nightmares an