Like Cardboard

Sitting up in bed tonight, in clothes of cotton.
My clothes.
White cotton, so quickly waterlogged, so slow to dry.
They will bear the scent and taste of wine forever
on their shoulders, these clothes of mine.
Cotton of the many seeds,
the child taken so painfully from its mother’s side.
Dripping like a cut tomato
are my clothes. In red I am soaked wet.
White cotton, grown in black dirt.

Do you remember if you’ve eaten,
the internalization of my counselor asks me?
Yes, I have eaten. What fuels my body
is lodged in the throat of my soul.
I choke upon the name Chiquita as my counselor reminds me
you shall not eat blood.
I choke upon my silicon,
cheaply made foreign goods for sale at Wal Mart,
and aisle after aisle of the sweat of the broken hearted.
Somewhere between pettiness and cruelty,
I exile myself to untamed shores of misery.

Unthread the colorful stitching,
let the waters down like a woman’s hair.
Don’t even spare me.
You, on whom I threw myself for mercy killing,
what is the meaning of my guilty plea?
Today you have refused me,
and who am I to disagree?
The world turns silently at the speed of sound
and echoes no louder.
If you have sentenced me to live,
then I will live indeed.

Don’t you think you should be sleeping,
the internalization of my counselor asks me?
Late is not too late to get some sleep.

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