Sta.sh
1)
i stop wearing jeans.
consume only poetry, let it burrow
and wriggle under my eyeballs, play
with the hairs on my neck.
i break the twigs of my fingers for fun. birds
call me in the night time; i tell my mother
i am growing hollow bones for flying.
it's funny the things you learn in the dark.
2)
pale with knowledge, the next morning i can walk on grass without bending blades.
it is made of razors that cut my feet.
i have too many teeth;
am made of matchsticks, burnt out and crumbling, sleeves pulled down, buttoning
and unbuttoning, aswirl with litres of water at a time.
i am a current of an ocean turned in on its own noble tide.
3)
i can be cold
on my own terms.
weigh less than an apple, whittled
down to the core; i can do this, and the less i am the more i feel
that i am
too much
oh god
too
much
slice open my limbs, flake the meat off silver bones
like filleting a fish; feel my stomach cave to a steaming
hot-plate, fat
spitting out and burning through the seams of my clothes, wrists
clattering when i drop them on the table. sullen.
4)
growing pain and thinking it is wisdom, feeling the cold as it splinters me
smaller.
they tell me i am going to hospital
if i don't stop it.
i say 'okay'.
pretend i think it matters anymore.
56789stop101
1stop12stop131415stopstopstop)
it is like slamming yourself in a door over
and over again.
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