The Things You’ve Made Will Leave You
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

—Grace Krilanovich

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.

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About barkingsycamores 183 Articles
Barking Sycamores is a literary journal entirely edited and operated by queer neurodivergent people of color. We publish poetry, artwork, short fiction (beginning with Issue 3), creative nonfiction (beginning with Issue 8), and hybrid genre work (beginning with Issue 9) by emerging and established neurodivergent writers as well as essays on neurodiversity and literature and book reviews (beginning with Issue 10).

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