skin peels, luggage of bones.
violins wilt inside pianos -
what it sounds like when we weep (you, silently).
the smallest inky drop of sad
embedded in my cheek, embryonic.
we keep returning to the past, a bad habit,
memory a lungfish sucking on our ears.
my fingers breathe old sweat
harm the varnish on my brain.
these hands keep creating the same veined figure;
clones. we live in a room of them,
make our beds in their shit.
- Bethany Victoria Price (not pictured above)