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All of the women poets who committed suicide stab my chest like wheat spikes to my calves, like nails to the cross, like forget-me-not thorns if forget-me-nots grew thorns. My belly sleeps like snakes, which is to say, it is always on guard. My sides bleed the color of poppies and I’m wearing a corollary of half-lit Universes on my back. The fire burning you from within never lights up your footsteps at night – shadows, however, pounce on your pupils and devour what’s left of your iris. Madness that smells of musty rooms isn’t my kind of madness. My kind of madness are open rooms at a house nobody inhabits anymore air leaking through a broken window and pinning petals in vibrant colors to the knobs of doors nobody closed. The flight of the birds leaves a trace of daytime dreams. Flying is overrated – us, for once, we want our feet on the land and land somewhere else but on our eyelids.
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