and I cannot help but wonder if this is all a dream, the way the sidewalk curls up against my toes and the words you pressed against my tongue will not stop licking at my insides. I have become the wounding. we walk around with metal fists and blood of heavy crimson. listen for the way the black birds fly, the feather in the wing slides smooth atop the wind. and a white gray sky is all I have ever known. a blank echo carving my long road home. we lose ourselves. we fall through our own fingers and collide with the stars. beg to eat of our own hands. incubation. starvation. temptation. disgust. the rust in my womb grows acrid. grows robust. they call the writers warm and they call them noxious and they take the poets screaming from their own hearts to pin them upon the walls built for casting shadows against one another. we make shapes by imagining our bodies as distorted animals. I’m tired of the way you speak so I color my eyes with silence. we take shape while everything is ragged. I am not strung together the way they hoped. too much relent, too upsetting the way thoughts follow each other in a rough corded line which ties you at the wrists and mouth. when I turn my blindness to the moon, she begins to cry. as I collect her, shine by shine, I close my hands around the breathing. I sing for her, eternity. I kiss the dark and make her mine.