#2

I've been thinking on bones, on the moving landforms of my teeth drifting in my mouth, the hole in the pillow exact as a fingerprint where I've bit. I'm thinking on each of my counted and recounted scars and the slow haul of cells that planted the six of them kiss-red on the pale of me. I am thinking because this is not what an animal would do: would not worry the loosed eyelashes and wish them away, willing the fabric of time to unfurl in three unknowable satin directions. This body will say one thing only--now, now--until I make it otherwise, until I scream into the inside of my own mouth that I am, and will, and have been screaming.

(drawing is by Sidney Pink)