by Milena Bee
mere breath i
remember how it feels so be alive, how
one can survive being ripped through the layers upon the world so that
i might feel something at your touch.
a memory to recall in only tender moments
of the past disregard which is really
the present, the prescient carelessness that drives me
and the path with other worlds,
into a different sort of trouble bathed in
which asks me
what i can and cannot handle.
what i will and will not
deny myself in the growing light of day as i watch
the sun come up on another day wherein i feel tied to a specter that would bring me down
in his own desire to be like me, horrorshow of carnal delight.
and as such i become latent, under
lying and irritated with resentment.
and i become a wretch, a lifegiven creature
that spews dark filth upon first reawakening, set upon a threshold that demands pain for survival and scrambles itself to avoid true sight.
eyes glued shut by my own body, you
peel me open to see the rot within and decide
cultivation of decayed roots, overlooking
the disease that set upon aggrieved body
in the first place. small mercies, to not
give power to malignancy.
or voice to admissions of pain. tending
to the broken roots, so maybe once
you can touch me and not come away
Milena Bee is a poet and mythologist. When they're not using their poetry as a chronicling method, they're trying to find a way to court the preternatural in with their supernatural fixation. They live in Los Angeles with their cat, Tangerine, and are the co-founder of zine-style newsletter All Guts No Glory, which publishes bimonthly art and culture commentary.