Liz

but their necks are too long

so they keep hitting things

and making noise.

But in the morning they’re gone

and all the chairs are back in place,

but I know they were there.

I change my socks,

and that extra inch of height

makes me feel like them.

Then I open the closet and hang inside it,

because I don’t like coats,

but they wake up

and, like giraffes, they make noise.

“Your coat is boring,” says the tallest one.

“I don’t know what that means,” you reply,

but then you fall asleep again,

using her memory as your coat.

She said she wasn’t,

but she was just a giraffe

I don’t hear them, but I feel them,

I feel their legs

moving through my synapses in October,

or maybe November?

In the night, in houses, in bars

I drink, clinging to metal wires

on my wrist.

Then I drink, and I see the spiders running, they fall,

crawling across my face

laughing at my lungs.

In December they pour barrels of pesticide,

but she takes my hand

and drinks wine.

Her teeth are crooked as she laughs,

and the wine grows darker

over her white teeth.

In January I slam my head against a thought,

and I remember your wine,

but you know it’s not working anymore, and you ask why my skin keeps running away from my bones

but I don’t chase it

and you leave

and I watch the spiders steal my lungs.

In February I forget January,

and I try to eat

but I only find skin

and my stomach tears open and calls me a spider.

I hold my hands in my pockets

or else they’d fall off,

and they remind me of yours

where molten metal used to flow,

but maybe I was only dreaming

of warmth,

OH EXCUSE MOI?!?!?!?