In the mouth of the rubbish truck,
we are woven like hair,
golden wrappers brushing our skin,
and
in the space between my fingers,
I find rats chewing my childhood,
as if they rip my own flesh with their teeth,
it is only a hairpin like caviar.

I lost it once,
in a gap between the floorboards,
where monsters devoured old receipts,
dying leaves dyed their skin green.

Remember being alone?
When nightmares like needles
drained blood from your face,
I remember it too. And we floated from there
from the lint from the carpet
to the teeth of this rubbish compactor,
with the cinema tickets, the broken watch.