alex’s archive

heat rushes to my face as i open my mouth lower palate drops, lips crack at their corners my instrument of speech fractures, falters jaw snaps shut mind/ /body if i were immaterial would you still hear me? i, myself/ am not /my lips nor /my tits nor /my bones they are mine but i should not be theirs yet i am, i know i am for it’s a dash, not a slash mind—body rotting—together i don’t have a body; i am a body ontologically tethered to the physical incapable of escaping materiality “no,” you answer from above my flesh is dying and i am too both with myself— —and within myself it’s an awful feeling really, being your own casket.