I’m drawing chalk outlines
onto the sidewalk for practice.
Black asphalt rivers made
for me, I cup my hands and
slurp tar greedily before it trickles
through my fingers but I don’t swallow,
I never swallow, I puff up my
cheeks and spit it back
into the river to watch
how the ripples form
I’m flipping on my cassette
deck of elevator music now,
dragging my fingers through
the pitch and picking it from
my skin like Elmer’s glue. Here’s
to hoping my skin peels with
it, now here’s to hoping I’ll
make my skin-picking
worthwhile. Here’s to seeing
how my scalp heals after I tear
out the black bubblegum I’ve
worked into it. Fuck the cassettes,
I’ll chew on their black tape. My
god, am I ever easy to please. I’m
gonna dip my ankles in for a bit,
to see how the scars will form
this time around. I’m gonna dip
my head in and blow bubbles ‘til
they’re big enough to crawl into. I’m
gonna scumble my skin into
millennial pink when the scabbing’s
all said and done. The least I can
do is aestheticize the
mess I’ve made.