Being Kissed On The Back Of The

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

Talk To Me About Sadness. I Talk About It Too Much In My Own Head But I Never Mind Others Talking About It Either; I Occasionally Feel Like I Tremendously Need Others To Talk About It As Well.

A Woman Who Writes Feels Too Much.

I Lay There Silently, Hoarding My Small Dignity. I Did Not Ask About The Gate Or The Closet. I Did Not Question The Bedtime Ritual Where, On The Cold Bathroom Tiles, I Was Spread Out Daily And Examined For Flaws. I Did Not Know That My Bones, Those Solids, Those Pieces Of Sculpture Would Not Splinter.

Oh Thumb, I Want A Drink It Is Dark, Where Are The Big People, When Will I Get There...?