my insides, O my insides. you icy finger, you feed the politician in me -- tell me how odd people are, will you?  tell me to detach and shed the malaise that adjoins.  connect the disconnection.  a long slide of intestine, a wicker basket skull, a pump in the gut, an eagle in the eye.  a rib cage filled with wet insects.  my mouth can't console.  i've devoured my heart and grew a tree.  my tree is alone so it swallows itself.  trees never shed.

i refuse to shed myself.  can you tell?  i've got shingles and shutters and cabinets filled with bones.  i've got pockets of cells i don't know the name of.  you know, our phases are pimped by the superior manufacturer -- cells like withered witch hands binding our thoughts and our reactions.  a schizophrenic concoction, this.  a pendulum frozen to the left.  a broken filter's plump, egotistical twin.  poppy buds planted on bleached cotton.  these things i know as well as i know people.

my belly houses fruit punch.  my brain is an unsettled dog.  my spine is a stack of broken dishes glued back together carelessly.  i am more.

i am.  i am who i am, that i was.  a sweet knife to dissect and reassemble.
Candice Rice