14
Where a Murderer Goes
Sit down on a chair,
exhale and count
slowly to ten…
No--
The blood boils, and something splits inside me.
I have to rip something open, tear it apart,
examine the insides.
You won’t understand,
but the only ones who truly see me
are the women of numbered breaths.
My heartbeat must be matched to
some manic jugular that tells me,
“you are here.”
A blood oath, a suture in time,
one formaldehyde moment to breath in.
You can’t understand,
but every body needs some body,
eyes to recognize you in the dark with their silence,
a vein that stands pulsing your name over and over.
There is no delineation between you
and the lives you take,
purple round the lips,
an eye blue sky shot red with recognition.
A present to myself, rope-tightened,
loose ends of existence bound neatly,
a mass of flesh stockpiled against
my own mortality.