perimolysis

it is the sound

of a a drain

shredding through the night

or

a metal box, full of fire

wisping all thrown into it

into only dark air and powder

(if that is clearer to you)
//
again
I am not fond of direct conflict
-
I think that maybe
if I keep trying to stuff you down that drain
eventually my hand will snag on a knot
in your hair
and go down with,
whirred to formless blood:

anything being ejected
will claw for life, or spite
all the way out
//\\

I think

I am giving myself too much credit

I am not willfully excising you

I would like to believe that this is

like wrapping roots in my hand

and jerking a leech from it's home in the dwindling green

but maybe it is more like

me rolling a bit further down the bed

maybe it is like

me discarding old clothes

(they will pile pile pile
I will stumble upon them
in the basement [in your case,
it is my mini-feed]
and "tsk," like an asshole]

and huffing into the sunlight in my fresh pair of skinny jeans

as if things in the peripheral don't bite
//
I am shedding faster than I can coat

I will get caught mid-molt

in the jaws of a big Lonely beast

and be carried away into a tunnel of ice