I’m in a pink stream,
dragged by my hair,
some sensory acuity,
words come over me in charges,
sagacity, lust,

my lips are punch-colored,
moist, eyelids the
lightest of rose
and wide open.
there is no inquiry.
I’m not fascinated by the minutiae,
day to day, I’m looking at
each speckle on
a pupil; the way the
purple lights hit everything
in the room.

you’re not risk avoidant.
I’m in front of the mirror

risk-directed, I engage
this way with myself, her
shifting apparitions as I
comb my eyebrows into something
stern, dark.
intimidate in silence.

told him to reach for a condom.
I’m in front of the mirror
upstairs, opening my mouth
to it.

I showed him my entire kitchen,
tonight– freshly scrubbed–
to offer him
water.  he tapped
the black handle hiding behind a whiteboard
near the backdoor.
first drawn to the index card
with marker scrawl, a code
to self when I want more
to stop    think about it.
then to the  portion of plastic
behind it.
the way you hide knives is scary.

he lifts the brown box out of
the open wooden table
near the window in my room
to find the right one and
uncovers a lithe blade
underneath and limp;
without direction.
the expressions are priceless.

there were two there.
one near the pen that I keep
in case I need to jot something
down in the middle of the
night     I’m a cheetah.
his eyes dart, glint stars and I’m draped
in mollified red up here, and
smooth from constant shaving
and lotion.

yeah, well I have yet to stab myself.
then feel it all pushed
inside of me,
my hair pulled back.


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