1+2+3/30

3/30

my mother shaves my head

I find little hairs stuck to the towel

even though I shampooed what is left

four times

car keys turn to dust

I hide in the third floor bathroom

my skin forgets me

//

hi

nice to see you

I'm good how are you

oh good

yeah I do a lot of writing stuff now

it's been good

thank you

please excuse me

yeah

I’m sorry

I am turning to dust

//

I skip school

take notes on the flashback

move like a ghost

made of trash bags

I want to shoot birds

if birds are men

which is not to say

I want to kill men

just

maybe if I shot him with a BB gun

I would feel better

I want to feel better

2/30

after him and whoever else decided to kill most of a toddler

my hands know how to ignore

whatever pain they inflict on themselves

or whatever else they have ever thought

they are attached to

[repeating this to have it all centralized]

1/30

interrupted core organizer

my thoughts are a side effect

of my body. my body

is a side effect of being alive.

my muscles remember it for me.

I take notes: arm pinned / gasp / breath in ear.

my body took it for me.

I am cut off at the neck.

I am a supernova.

last night I spent thirty minutes telling myself

to sit up. I am not my body. I am not here.

I’m scheduling an extra therapy appointment.

I want to get fuzzy and leave.

I am a car crash folding inwards.

I can’t feel the metal

I see spiraling

through my gut.