(injury/blood warning)
scabs and dried up blood and open flesh are as gaudy as the bellies of poisonous toads. as i cradle his face in my hands like the Bhagavad Gita and let my fingers run down the sides of his face like the delicate, hand sewn spine of a book. hits from 2011 play in the background and disorient the air itself. katy perry sings about shit and i think about shit and he is injured, shit. i threw out insurance papers last week and changed highlighter colours, frosting a sad cake with a butterknife and words slipped between teeth that were cooler than ice chips. he made food that tasted so bad we ate out, he breathed normally a few seconds ago, he was listening to debussy and attempting to sing along, and he wasn't bleeding. the 911 operator is trying to talk to me in the background.
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
