Victim. The sour taste. I try to sleep the feeling off
on the floor I have not cleaned in a year. The grime
peppers my hair as the dark sinks but does not stain.
I wish it could ink me out. An erasure, the remainder
of my life will be lived around this gaping wound.
I could fall over the edge of it, dive into the avulsion,
swim laps in the pit of blood. There’s no healing for this.