With Hands Tied Around My Neck, I Breathe

Stomach open: the little pieces spill and

Mix with pencils and pens and

I use them,

I finger-paint

 

Despite gut on hands,

It somehow makes writing simple,

Around my neck.

 

I want to dig fingers—

Rip apart networks,

Squeeze out thoughts of you, so,

Stark-raving sad, so long,

From my neck; I breathe,

On paper, I wheeze.

 

Please, abbreviate me, Gut,

Limit me,

Every word is gored—a hand

Throttled, but, not ready, for

The girl is too close,

Too close to the wet, winded floor.

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