by Laura Voivodeship
These flights of madness
even out the stories
I tell. Threadbare
lines I scrawl on walls
begin with bite
marks and fingerprints.
And proof? the sound
of your voice, the length
of your spine, the weight
of your shadow as
it weighed down on mine.
If this is what insanity
feels like, I can insist
on a fiction, fake
a death, cross
a country with concrete
ideas. The closer I come,
the less I exist
outside what it is
I have written.