this year our edges aren’t so perforated. why do i sweat over your ownership when it chafes under my collar? i’m learning to eat your stories, mastering the delicacy with all my hackles raised. turns out i got buffeted, but this is to be expected.
was i ever a beautiful alien? i didn’t open my eyes and never found out. i want to feel like judd nelson but am a person who cuts their own hair. one day it will not hurt to think about and i’ll put this aside for flavored water sponsorship. when you tell me about my body as a solid object, it reminds me of a yolkless egg. not everyone experiences ego death, or can live two inches in front of their head. it’s easier to say, here are all things i cannot think and that is who i am.
i love exposing myself to your vivisecting, the exploratory research into our combined future. witness us coagulating, sewing a legacy onto my shoulder. witness me stretched across the gap of the roof, showing you a blood moon. i break my nose and don’t give you up, but why won’t you let me? despite frothing at the mouth again, we are good to each other in ways like taste.
Mal Young is a poet constantly overheating in Los Angeles, CA. She is the editor of Dirt Children, an experimental literary magazine, and has had work published in print and online. You can follow her on twitter @upstreamculotte.
Occulum 