If I could paraphrase your body language I would say it is an amethyst stone. They say the death of a butterfly could cause an earthquake like the tremor of your knees. My name tastes like toothpaste diluted by bathroom sink water and most days I wish I was dead
I am. I was. You are always praying for cigarette smoke, the lines dancing across your hands are cigarette smoke or cigarette smoke rings that remind me of the messiah (I am the messiah and I am the one who raped the moon and I am sorry I’m not sorry because she would not be so beautiful without the sorrow of her dimness)
Can you help me please I am falling, slipping, fucking back into my upright position and I am keeping death tucked into the cuff of my sleeve so I can blot my face with it.
Let me eat the robin egg, it is the color of the sky.
Step into me, tell me your astrological sign, and slide your tongue down my throat. I am trying desperately to be a poet I am trying desperately to use my eyelids as curtains and to memorize their colors I am trying desperately to remember who I was before I was obsessed with the structure of my own bones. I want to understand the meditative figurative slither
that wraps around
my palms and belly fats and suffocates my pores. I have learned to hate now even the curves of my breasts.
Yasmin’s note: Really lovely.