poetry

To give.

I strip off what’s left
just as you asked;

see here are my bones,
they rattle and clang
like teeth in a sink.

Whatever drips
is a mess on the floor;

see here is some hair,
wet and mashed
pulled from my throat.

I’m sorry for the stains
it’s all darker than I thought;

see here are my eyes,
punctured cornea
dribbling ink blots and salt.

It’s all gone
just cavities and echoes;

see here is where I end,
a vanishing fog
wishing you’d tell me to stop.

© Nancy Botta, 2020

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