I am a garden locked up.
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.
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.
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.