Brooklyn, NY -- I try to imagine myself threading a small mouse on a spit the same mouse that we found hampering in my pink bed sheets as I attempt a petrified sleep a textured sleep one salted with the humiliation of poverty I try to imagine myself in the midst of that sleep quilted addled in it unable to refrain the tiny evils inside of me but I can’t get past the first pinch of gelled flesh I can’t get past the trauma of puncturing a thing that bleeds blood no matter how it beetles through my night no matter how it shames me out of my interior cultures I can’t get past its squeals I can’t get past the inhumanity I can’t get past the lie but the gods of small things become the god of all things in the dark
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