when I didn’t speak. Now, detritus in and out of my mouth, smell of wormwood, this black wasp between my sheets. Separate her wings from the thorax for she is curious. Marvel at her exoskeleton’s slender waist. Marvel, too, an act of severance. We no longer bow beside our beds at night. I am no longer afraid of fucking strangers or being caught under a streetlight as it flickers out. Fear is a form of separation. I’ve carved an eye into my palm. Gender now uninteresting. A dog whistles back at the shadow calling to it.
12 |
CAITLIN SCARANO