my head is sick, dust triggering off fire alarms and termites
munching through my skull. i'm told not to evacuate,
so i sit, becoming furniture. now
someone tell me to keep the flesh out of my fingernails,
because i'm carving a statue out of my arms and legs.
but then again, pretend i live in the prosthetic skull of a body of a girl
with tiny wooden armies
at the end of her palms that send
suicide notes to her best friend at three in the morning.
she crashes and gets up at eight instead of seven, guess she's not eating
breakfast, that dumb-eyed block of burnt lips and black tea.
she keeps a museum in the bags of her eyes
and she's too fascinated to sleep ever again.