I See Myself As One Would See

To Tell The Truth Days Are All The Same Size And Words Aren't Much Company.

My Mouth Blooms Like A Cut.

Despite My Asbestos Gloves, The Cough Is Filling Me With Black, And A Red Powder Seeps Through My Veins.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died Full Of Questions