a swollen finger rising to the occasion rising to the size of a grape, purple bloated like a stuffed pocket or pregnant chicken green oozing out like the slime i got from the museum and the smell of rubber and plastic following me in my sleep
a ghost by the window slipping into my thumb and biting pain the numb pressure of muscle tissue ripping the phantom claws out and shouts that women are debris swamps with lost metal buried at the bottom if you dig long enough the days become one and their hair consumes you whole
i argue with the shadow, threaten that this bruise will burst and blood with meet alcohol, an antibiotic fever dream it stares at me defiant, like a giant pulverizing a village my fingers wrestle and before the abscess can pop the fingerprints unravel until i am nothing but thread a coil at the bottom of the floor a dress to be sewn in a bedroom the shadow stand up and fits her bones into the fibers, a bride in white the thumb hurts no more