it’s three in the morning. there’s ink on my fingers.
on my palms. so i can’t see the lines that tell me
the future. my white sheets are stained. dark. i can
see stars but not the moon. i’m scared. is this a poem?
i can’t tell. there’s ink and lines and no rhyme so it
might be. maybe. i can’t really tell what a poem is
anymore. “are you okay?” my mother says. it hurts
too much to breathe. maybe if i write in ink i won’t
bleed everywhere anymore. blood that no one sees.
if a poem is written in blood and not ink (is it a poem?)