by Jesse Rice-Evans
I think I like you best this way: tousled, smeared, bright
Your bed is a kind of ruin, in your rush to undress me, you destroyed me
Despite everything, my body grows, underfoot like a fungus
For three days I seethe, my skin slaking off in quiet hunks. I shake all the time, mouth full of salt, of foam, crust of xanax around my lips.
I don’t remember much of these dark days, just catching my wild face in the bathroom mirror, eyes purpling and engorged, skin awash with christmas light. For days I slink, an alley cat, my haunches wrecked by panic, fingernails falling out, my underwear soaked with phlegm loosing itself from my vagina, escaping the acid sludge I am carrying around, fermenting.
Afterwards, I cannot swallow for two weeks.