shake my head no.

“I don’t intend to hurt myself.”
my thighs are colored: red
and with a finger-shaped
bruise, the smell of
someone else’s
laundry detergent wafts about
me; spectral evidence of being
wanted, licked, used
and
I am windswept,
gutted and frank,
even in malaise, I
fork my tongue to cut:

“I can only cry at hospitals
and then I usually leave.”
lean in, (and they said
be gallant).  he has
blue eyes.
“most of my family is dead.
14 members at least and…”



my throat sore from
conversation. addressing
myself and the little girl in the corner
of the room.
“you can’t see her.”

persisting mucus. it’s an affliction;
laryngopharyngeal and
also, the taste of him
takes my hand.
takes my neck.
takes my waist.
stop talking.
“MA’AM WHO?”

but I just can’t.

where are your friends?
the EMT said to me.

“I just want to be seen.”


“freight” or “nine of wands”

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