i was in a darkroom of fractured webs
hands on fire slipping off of chrome
and porcelain
warm pulp juiced raw
and heavy but all i
could see where photographs
developing under my sticky fingers

someone after
me
it was soon
too soon (she
‘s better than
you)

ground down my knuckles
peeled back
exposed blue-green hanging
down my palm
shards swallowing it
whole like salt
crystals
growing
on
a
st
ri
ng

i came out the other side
losing myself to the sink
the same
as i
lost myself
to you