it's an overcast

It is an overcast woodrot kind of day. I sink
my teeth into logs, soppy. Suckle until my tongue is
raw and sore. Picking
splinters

I am reminded my body is mostly water. Reminded
that we argue these kinds of things. We, the defiant
little bitches, fire-starters, flame-tasters, butterfly-
tamers. We, the ones with eyes so large - so ridiculously

bulbous and afterbirth-like, that we gave up applying the ointment.
We go - "O, Sun! O, Moon!" taste us anyway. Eat us anyway
you can like the cat-tongue of the month while I'm
on my period. Unraveling pieces of art and cackling

like the witch stirring beneath my zipper. She goes
"Bloodsister, pass me your golden fork, toss me your locks
and everything else that's slippery. Show me how abstract
your pupils become in the middle of a circus ring. Show

me how you look like the tallest oak tree in the forest
dying with lightning scars and not a single promise etched
into your bark." and I want to crawl into her lap, cut my hair

and make terrible things of art with it. The rest do not come
with me. She runs her beaten and bloody heart down my face when I show her,
through smoky fingers, that I am a sapling with twenty-thousand stumped

circles