by Michaela Seales
my cells turn to honey
I siphon into wine.
Drunk on restlessness and regret,
I stumble through my subconscious.
My cranium walls are littered
with the graffitti of every spoken line
that told me I’d only be loved
when I shrunk myself enough
to become what others needed.
I strip my shadow from the sidewalk pavement
and let it dry on a clothesline,
my goose-bumped flesh
bathing in the pale glow of streetlights.
Any good insomniac knows
how easily the body will devour itself
when its tongue is only familiar
with the taste of its own flesh,
and shame that loves to linger in the mouth.