Sitting at the edge of my bed,

I am aware of my own presence in the room.

It is unnerving.

It makes my skin scrawl.

I imagine my skull being opened by a bullet’s exit,

my face, unraveled,

blood pooling at my feet.

I imagine my teeth becoming ungummed.

I feel sick.

I taste blood in my mouth.

I imagine a girl drenched in gasoline,

a man crushed by a subway car.

I imagine my lover

pulling my bloated body from the river,

“My god, what have you done?”

There are moths dying on the windowsill,

spiders trapped in the bathtub.

I am trapped here too.