—IT’S JUST ME

Archive

Some days I want to

step on a bear trap,

step off a ledge,

step off a ship while anchor-tied,

step on an IED and

be shredded. 

Days when the air tastes

barbaric and barren,

yet burning in my chest

for a hunger I can’t feed. 

If I watch the trees for clues,

their lacquered leaves

make a mockery of me. 

Even squirrels glance the other way.

Nights—those dark

twins of daytime—

are no better,

lying suspended with their

impossible edges and

mouth-stitched shut. 

And I know

how this sounds,

what I must look like—

a beheaded cockroach or

wingless finch—

but you begged for the truth. 

That’s why I’m peeling

off the layers and

writing it down on the

bloody squares of my skin

so I’ll have an archive

and you will, too.