I cannot believe that language is an unbreachable

wall around a nothing—at

some point—after I had long-walked the soles

off of my feet—and the blisters crept between my toes

and my gym socks

attached by coagulate had torn them away

some new and painful awareness remained

in the absence of skin I realized that language was doing

something that I wasn’t in control

of: every statement that I wrote down would

wing a multitude of quills—a fury

that scribed the inverse

arguments of everything I have wanted

to say—I was

in fact writing myself

a thousand deaths fully fleshed

in the spreading ink

my self palimpsest.


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