• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 08


which countenance of darkness do you
see when you close your eyes? can you hear
it the way I do? eyes buried in the compost
of ears, in the tranquil regurgitations of all
that is capable of loss. these nails have a
tendency to scrape thick dregs of paint behind
our mirrors. but it’s still safe to procreate this
illusion: there is no parasite in-between, no
wraith haunting the innards of our silent prayer.
I spend long nights dressed as a tea cozy for
your shoulders; pink-hued, and nearly unseen.
there are moments when we dissect our saturnine
hearts, hold them in the crevices of our palms;
the way two scientists discover relics through
a microscope of doubt and announce it ungodly.