Sensationalism
Posted by Alysia Harris | Filed under Poetry, Print
A shower laced
coaxed me into
its blunt
and I cannot argue.
I am filthy with a weeks
worth of myself, whomever.
Maybe now, maybe soon,
tomorrow but the past is no fiction.
Editorials of dirt
publish from my back
stories scurry and
drain
as I think,
“I am no intellectual.
I cannot think and
write.
Only feel. There is nothing rational
the way I scratch my
thigh for blood.”
I grabbed the body wash with glowing silver
specks marketed to
housewives all of
them as
glamorous as Tuesday.
Idea of it on my hands,
I scrub.
Skin cries shivers.
This is what its like to
be done with it.
I think, I feel.
I left my jewelry on, trying to prove
a point.
My ring
eager for the floor tried Virginia suicide
but I stopped it with my foot.
I wished all silvers could be stopped by a foot.
Not all can. Not hope
not time.
Maybe hope.
I stand there till pickled,
the bitter
smack of rag
and wash convincing my arms
the world never used me.
