Consider the freight train
running along my torso. Do you
hear the distant shrieking, the
warning, the steel braces quivering
at your touch?
Consider the damp linen hanging
in the corner of my eye. Do not
forget to switch the
laundry. Lay flat to dry.
I am losing things in the bed.
I am not
crying. I am leaking, lying.
Razor your fingertips, burrow
into my spine. Unhinge the brackets
of my ribs, live in the hollow. Chisel
your name into my collarbone, carve away with your pickaxe tongue.
But do not make your
home in me,
do not get lost
do not drop anchor.
Stop. You will lose
the red string you tied somewhere
inside my stomach. The labyrinth is
hungry and has a taste
for your blood.
Instruction Manual of My
Body: How To Immortalize
What Is Already Dead.
Commit the sinking delta of my throat
to memory. Leave voicemails of gasps
until your lungs are
at capacity. Keep a map of my
bruised lips, I have been here and here and here. Worship the altitudes and
the crumblings of my flesh. Take
fistfuls when you go.
I am lost in the bed
and you never read the instructions.
- e.m. and kat myers vellichours