How do you tell someone that sometimes a corset is just a corset?
That a clothesline is used for more than just hanging clothes?
That you slink against walls hoping someone will press you against chilly ceramic bricks in the mid-afternoon haze of January moons-the sun-static on your spine spins zig-zagged?
Want to have breath in your earhole and teeth on your cartilage.
Sit in front of the mirror and watch red stripes and crescent moons swell on the shoe strings of your neck.
Let someone in to feel your ribs cave, left with fingerprints of purple, blue-streaked tomorrowday.
Twist your hair even as your arm is twisted—wishing for a word, words, a subway of jet engines and cracking egg shells.
“Move” as a greeting and “I’ll miss you” as they walk out the door.
Fuck up your brain and you write them stories, your very own uncompromising villain, lock you up instead of a rescue. Thank you you’ll get out on your own.
-Arky
