My Own Hand

I learnt to let go, un-wedge axes
from skulls, how to pull knives out of muscle without damage to both parties. One party’s pretty damaged already and this is deciphering time, deciding if we’re just as fucked as they are. You can’t control cancers over lifetimes, and the research is gone that kept viruses, ills away. None of us are terminal and we all are. On foot was the option, wrong decision. You can’t run for nights, but hours only.

I execute each stab with movie precision like it’s impossible to miss twice. I’m waiting for saviours or alternatives. Now, the world shows its hierarchy which is always a patriarchy which we didn’t fix when we thought we did. We used to think everything was fine when it wasn’t and some prioritise wrong, think that laundry is an end times’ concern, that dishes are. But blood stains don’t wash out and when they do I have to wonder, “How long did you spend scrubbing, how many washes, rewashes were there? Did you waste bleach on white shirts, Y-fronts? Shouldn’t you have saved it for dissolving flesh, for drinking when there’s only you left?”


I Can’t Kiss My Own Neck

First, you think we all think the same. Then you realise your thoughts are similar to those of your parents and friends and the people at school who hold sway for no real reason, maybe after school sessions mean something different for them. You did your maths’ homework at Mark’s house, got the last bus at six fifty six, watched Big Brother before bed.

Parents will say, “Carve your own way,” and, “Decisions are yours,” but someone else’s hands have a stake in your brain and, often, it feels like latex-ed fingers are inside cavities created by surgeons, somewhat delicately, but not enough.

The advice you give floors others because hope is for dreams and upbringings. You say, “Die, if you want to,” and, “It hurts,” and you leave doors open when you shouldn’t. You challenge the regressive nature of the women around you who want to recoil into their own wombs, live with the fetuses they grow but shouldn’t. You have a steady hold on guns, in a totally non-euphemistic way, and why should you change your life’s direction for dish washing, peeling carrots.

Whoever said women make stability, girls create homes, never met me.