i.

waiting for five
fingers in tangled distress
with my hair,
woven strands left
to screaming.

i trace my veins
and wonder what my heart
would think
if i could make them burst.

joints pop,
like corn:

crack, snapple, stop

stop.



ii.

the bones beneath my skin
creak,
like a porch swing
on rusty hinges.
i find you there
on sundays,
talking to the voices.

but only
on sundays,
so that must be alright,
right?

if i had dead gods in my head,
i would pray to them,
too;

i am sure of it.



iii.

i want roots,
but i cannot
bury myself too deeply.

so i plant daisies, instead;
put my hands to the soil.

deeper,

when your memory disappears
into the black earth.

deeper,

until i cannot see
your face
among the flowerbeds.