sometimes this is misunderstood to be love.
I’m pissing my mother’s divine shards of glass
covered in kitchen light and cold water
my silk second skin clinging
even to my concavity
smelling like pages
because of the ink you left in me
I pace on dead trees
where you almost threaten to love me
inside of me
where no one lives
on black lace
of her ghost
you are not hungry
Trees do not lay down.
Your strings do not search for me.
I am not a ghost.
I cannot tell if you are dead. I’ll eat you anyway.