I am preparing for the limits

of my wound—
29 and not yet properly diagnosed

I thumb open sutures
throw stones at myself like a song

the water of my body rippling.
I once swallowed a gas lamp

after the psychiatrist told me
there were too many things wrong

with my body—
but he couldn’t see where

couldn’t see which

the lamp turned into wolf eyes
furnace                             ash

I appeared as an absence

in his hands.

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