Someone once called me a scribe, a calligrapher.
Lady Lazarus. Prophet. I let the words roll off me. None of them fit quite right. Look at your hands, they say as they turn my palms over, but the ink stains don’t read like tea leaves — all they see are shins and shoulder blades. Nothing about the journals I drowned in the quarry, nothing about the crescent moon, or all that blood.
This isn’t fiction, it’s fission — I keep writing my old, divided ribcage into everything.
Poet. Artist. You aren’t reading this right. It’s not a story, I’m trying to tell you something. Those rusted spoons and collarbones — those cornfields and cars. It’s not a stanza, it’s hysteria.
And you’re still not listening…