Lancet Fuel

pluto in Aquarius

Pieces found on pinterest

And I split

like the skin of a burn victim’s sternum, too tight and too wounded to hold space for breath.

No center line,

just a scalpel and a shaking hand.

A spade to soil, punctured skin parts

like a mouth,

gasping

and the words leave me while my ribs become fences, while

my body becomes just an object made of objects; a thing that collects things.

You and your blade. Me and my bone house.

I’ve grown tired of the metal table.

The tag on my toe looks a lot like the tag on your clothes, more numbers to hoard. Your arguments based on glass-encased narratives, bore me.

Everything is fun when it’s just outside.

The flames look a lot like artificial light. The decay, its poetic…until it isn’t.

Until its rot.

Water drips inside the cracks and

splits.

It all rhymes for you.

and isn’t that the point, you say, to come alive alongside the flowers?