Our worth is made of the skin of blossoms. We wake up the ash beneath our eyelids that empty from our dusty mines. When we pucker, when we push out, it is through the silk of our gestures. Dreams have the qualities of wool now. Rewards are listless in abundance. We make ourselves graphic thick. Wake along the lines of discomfort in a trot. Weighed by the density of discomposure, I thought it was my skin I tore.
How could you say we save our bodies from the make of grain. We lay inert in tundra king. Dissolve my golden fluids. Sex is my refrigerator. You are my enduring wine. This body is a waste to feel like forever. To keep is to destroy and this is freedom. I am the ability to grow and hatch. This is me as the yoke of frost. The contact between effect and gas.
Eyes burning hard in recognizant febrility. Pressure driven from the glow of cold emission hits at the center. The direction lights my core and shines through my eyes. Fills me like corridors. Walk in an empty room and traverse along atoms combusting. Acid falls from my skin like snow. White skin, like the center of a flame. Light finds me home by the thresh of its fires. I see with only blind lucidity. Call me your weapon: I am dawn in hell.
Left alone, the blood solidifies yellow. Tunnel vision is barrel vision. We have found ourselves buried in grain, I sublimate the melt. Apply this to the tips of you. Dusted fruit and assaultive limbs add the powdered rot. Brimming stones of history, striking me like flint. I will never be a flame.
Play the image of arterial home. Cream spilt on marble floors. Import soap and you at dusk. Stuck to the backbones mocking our corrected visions. Thick choked in velvet water. Twisted structures of home stairs ache with luxury. Fill me upwards here and here, because I have the morning to stand against. What is done now is golden.
Annie Raab is a sculptor and writer studying and working in Kansas City, MO. Her work has been published at Vauban Inc and in the KCAI Sprung Formal. She is currently traveling abroad.