run a finger down my throat, i dare you
it would be searing like mid-august pavement in california
when you try to walk with naked feet and
my guts feel like a frying pan
each of my insides are steaming

if i moaned, i'd fog all of the windows one by one
thats why when i feel passionate
when i touch myself in this tiny apartment
with legs as long as lady bugs, and a patience that wears as thin
as nylons in spring--
i shut my mouth.

bumps and bruises run across my vision
red scales like slick snakes and
a rumbling like pebbles after rain that when
you crunch on them, it sounds like a series of
small bones,
cracking
there is a certain sourness to my teeth:
dinner was pickles from the jar
johanna gave them to me after i dumped my
cigarettes into a flower vase.

"its an art project"
really its a self care project so my lungs don't have to
pop out burnt from the toaster.

DING!