She says my eyes look like the globe
from behind rose tint.
Lillys for irises, poppies in my stomach, roses from my bleeding mouth.
I twist and turn until it takes hold;
Like a cathedral, arching in agony, all windows stained.
I’m lying on a bed of my own feathers,
Plucking them out as fast as they can grow back.
I’m writhing like a skin shedding serpent,
Removing as much of that old self as possible.
When I emerge, finally clean, but for the blood,
I’ll keep those globes for her,
And maybe she won’t need rose tinting to see it.