I am a garden locked up.
Listen here.
I am not interested in being threaded through a needle or woven into your tapestry.
The eye is too fine.
My kneecaps are too wide.
I am a spring enclosed.
Intimacy means
being bruised all the time.
And someone else’s thumb is pressing pressing pressing watching the purple blood rise
up and swallow your cream skin whole.
(there is a net of twisted green veins beneath that no one will see until they cut me
open and untangle them from me)
I am a sealed fountain.
Look.
My fingernails are cold and hard as pebbles, unimpressive and angry.
I’ve used them too carve the dark circles under my eyes so you will know I work, I do the
fucking work, I’ve got it, okay, so don’t worry, I’ve got it.
Here is my ember laid bare.
My love is hot and infested with scorpions.
If I didn’t feel the desert inside me, how else would I know I’m alive –
Kate Douglas is a writer and performance artist living in New York City.