oh, to crawl my way inside,
to scoop dahlias out of my throat —
and find the dumping site for all the gods
that died in my hands —
to this there is no absolution.

to crawl my way inside
and find the veins that survived,
the veins that did not —
the veins
too late to be saved by prayers.

to crawl my way inside
this skin — this catastrophe:
all flesh and a pool of blood
and all the nights i didn't drown
and perhaps soon,
i'll finally get to my ribs,
part them with all the softness
that my cruel hands can muster
and stare at the quiet, incomprehensible aching.


as though the calm will remain
suspended in the air.


soon,
it will all fall away.