cells [a poem]

sun burn, when all your uncovered cells are given flamethrowers and a hot shower trades  drops of comfort for gasoline—embarrassment is like that, licking you with burning discomfort, pouring rock salt shame onto the burns, shame’s got a big fucking mouth, too, she finds her way into your ear almost immediately, spits acid onto your thought synapses, smiles when you begin to peel, sticky and reluctant, echoing questions in my head, it’s mother’s day, shouldn’t you call? why didn’t you tell him? did you honestly not see? well? the flesh fumes are enough to choke

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