Wednesday, December 12, 2007

I despise this skin that
spreads tightly over the rib cage
but is loose around the bulges of thighs and the
small cheek oranges.

it scratches over me, he said
like too little butter over too much bread,
and the heels chip off like grandfather’s house

these tiny volcanoes unravel me
they prick the softness of my insides
and joke around the pool of gray
in a loud chorus of

I can only hope to sing louder
in a voice to overpower
but these little things know how to whisper
in the secret places.
they gnaw holes in my ear drums.

and in this bitter body,
I’m still so far away
from the complete silence.

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