January 01, 2016 · Comments Off

Sandy Bluth

I keep losing my body

in places I haven’t been
I keep seeing your body
only as a contortion,
or misrepresentation
of human, let alone
my own flesh and blood – still,
a sort of convincing creature,
I’m fascinated every time
you find my arms: who does it
hurt more? Who gets to have
the satisfaction of my two
hands? I’m in the bathroom
and it’s 4:30 in the morning,
you’re standing behind
me, together we’re a bad
dance or maybe an attempt
at I’m sorry I guess
it’s easy to hurt something
that functions as a cushion.
It’s easy to attack when
neither of our bodies have
filled their physical forms yet;
both twisted at the center,
dense skin floating off of us,
the spaces between our bones
filling with spit and sweat, please
just stay together for me.

 

A Non-Death by Gunshot

I am terrified of being shot to death.
I have seen the news, stories
about strangers killing strangers they make me want
to put my body into a microwave
just to see what would happen: I would
gladly nuke the shit out of myself

not for you. I’m ashamed to say it to myself
but I’m curious about the color of my own death.
I like to picture a certain shade of silver that would
creep out of my stomach. I want to tell stories
and pour it into my childhood tea sets, microwave
it and serve it to my friends – don’t tell them what I want.

Growing up I left food for lost girls in the neighborhood I wanted
them to live then the lost girl was myself.
All summer I pictured myself microwaved
in the heat, wearing only a blue silk robe, impersonating death,
and dancing down the street at night just for the stories
or maybe I was thinking of becoming a flasher. I would

do it just for fun, feeling good knowing one day I would
own a blue silk robe and want
to dance again. I think it would make for a good story
to know what it would feel like to be shot by myself.
I’d like to leave my silver death
stain all down your bed sheets. Or maybe microwave

my brain. I am a human with needs, but I’d rather shove myself in a microwave
just to take up less space. I would
rather you found me disgusting instead of conquered. I’d rather death
than if you thought for a second you needed me. I want
you to know you’re wrong. I’m not scared to melt myself.
I have horror stories:

if you stare too long you’ll damage your eyes. There are stories
of my silver guts everywhere, splattered in the microwave.
Don’t stare at me for too long, I know myself.
I would just as easily melt your eyes as I would
drown you in my silver waste. Maybe what I really want
is to fake my own death.

But there’s a difference between how I would
leave my mark and my own want
to know what a gun feels like when you’re not dreaming about death.