body work

i. from morton

**tw's for: abuse, disordered eating, sui ideation, self-harm, flashbacks**

i call out for mother
& in walks the knife, it breathes. i
call for their god &
down comes the guillotine. my
father faints. it

ruins me: this urge to press myself back into the earth, to be weeping—

—willowed back to god. to forget, i interlace the hand with the ribcage. the doctors don't want me to do that again. i forget

that all of my friends are a childhood away — with adult hands hoisting up toddler hearts, each a bright candlelit vigil / an ode to prometheus

that sparks the harsh wicked good.
i was never there, i was clutching
ashes with my heart to be the urn. i no longer need

to be both the house & the housed, i no longer need to be. so —

down comes the guillotine. the knife
did her best; clawing
myself out of me. she meant right
meant calm meant something wicked good, i

still wait for it, diseased. i move but something inside me remains deceased. the head lolls & then

i don't sleep so
there's nothing to fear, except the hands around my throat
& the foot on my face & the stairs the stairs the stairs

— i find myself face-down on the cool floor: a literal grounding

of sorts. i call out for help
& in rolls the hot poker. it screams. i
call out no more
& everybody leaves. my
sister laughs. this

hurts me: the need to disappear from everywhere, all at once, to be whisper—

—walked straight through the past. to stop, i make my arm & tree bark look the same. the doctors don't know i did that again. i stop,

still, all of my words are 2 crises gone. i couldn't talk for years & now have nothing else to become so

i call out no more; the metal on
the flame was her ode to prometheus, perhaps. she did good.
i still feel the heat.