in total i have eleven babies that i made from broken pipes &
they have been pacing around my room all night.
“where is he?”, asks the eldest-looking one.
we do not answer.
(the other ten have eyes that don’t blink)
the last time he saw me cry she plucked out my eyeballs with a chisel
(who thought of people with wooden eyes first?)
but i wanted to first tell you about the invention of the pinched nerve by gods who can’t do prose. (now i have a different idea).
will you teach me how to rewrite pain with these surplus letters from the alphabet?
i like to think of myself as a stubborn non-human organism experiencing existential nightmares as though i were human. after numerous almost-failed attempts at long-form, i now call myself a poet (which i use as an excuse to be cynical about life).