Busy Nails on the Skin of My Stomach


with your fingers, separate my lungs

with busy nails, play my strings, trace

words on the skin of my stomach—


so fucking tired—might as well go to ground

with hands, in the trails you left behind,

dug through the back, in the sound, of

daylight trapped, like we sorrowed over, like

hearts hollowed out, once again to busy nails—


how long can I continually reference the broken?

for the whistling, empty organs they are?

for the useless, tossed, arbitrary distractions they are?


let’s find out.



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