Unraveling

September 2, 2008
By
Sometimes,
I just want to unzip the skin
that I'm standing so awkwardly in,
neatly fold it,
after I had hung it out on a line
with the summer sun
painting its scent through each cell.
I would set it on your porch,
waiting for you
to get home from work
and try it on.

I'd give my eyes to my father
and maybe then
he'd finally be able to see.

And my sister could have my brain,
still dripping with warm, syrupy blood
so she would know all the monsters under her bed.

My Grandpa
could have my nose,
so he could smell all the love that he is surrounded with
and know that he isn't alone.

Then I'd take all my bones,
and build a house
by the sea
or nestled in the mountains
where
I'd take my nervous system
intricately sewed as a lace tablecloth,
the brilliant red vinyard that it is,
would light up the halls.

I'd cut out my heart,
my infinate unending,
and give it to the boy
that will never love me,

and I just might be free.





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