I’m hearing drills and it’s midnight.

When I feel like flattening something

 

I clear space on the floor and press

my whole front down. I have nobody

 

to confess to that under my belly here

was where I knocked and spilled six cups

 

of blackest red, three cups of black-

laced rum. This wood has done so well

 

to swallow my secrets: I would kiss it

thank you but I’ve forgotten how. I sleep

 

with my lips splayed open so I can skim

and chew the wet dead skin in the morning.

 

My tongue is grayer than a winter pelt.

Somehow the mantle candles have spread

 

cherry wax over the wall like a sneeze,

a ring of rose rust, a hardy sea spray

 

of blood flung from my nails. Most days

I scratch myself in fits. The blood has no

 

taste, but once I’m done I arrange my body

the best for my mouth to get at the wounds.