August Kingham
CASCADE
I press my fingers into that strange,
soft place of mine, blood slicking
the way. I’m always wet when someone
touches me. Predictable, sure, shower
warm. Barely a tease of a touch and
I open, typical, but those touches
are reserved for other people. Spine
shiver reserved for them too, this touch
no more than a chore to stop the bleeding.
Water as lube, blood as slick, tears as
damp. 56% water, this body, always leaking.
Of course it hurts. My body has not taught me
how to be gentle. The cotton slides home
the plastic slides out. Sometimes I’m wet
in other places: these are less predictable.
Sometimes, I stand in the shower, watch
salt/blood/water become indistinguishable.
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