The day I learned there was nothing I couldn’t swallow,
I sucked out the bolts from your bed frame, felt them rachet
their way down my throat on spark-thin threads.
You had nothing left to hold you together, and so each
of your lies unfolded bright as a firework display, but silent.
We listened to the metal cooking itself into more comfortable
elements in my stomach as we settled down to sleep on the floor.
When the creditors called, demanding I turn my body
into their collection, when I could hear knuckles cracking
for my ruined teeth on the other end of the line,
I unhinged my jaw and slid the phone into my gullet,
digesting it like an ignored prayer. I am my own agency now.
I owe only to the hum and gurgle underneath my skin.
I ate the telescope nested in the hills above this city.
It took me a week, and each lens tumbled in
with the precision of an Olympic diver.
My neck transformed into a tunnel for the length
of a breath as the barrel of that watching beast
slid into me, found its way home.
And when he came for me, straight from the folds
of my own treacherous history, I turned to face him
with an open mouth, consumed that which had been
poison down to what’s beneath the bone, licked the air
clean of his hands gripping for my voice until all that was left
was a blank spot in my memory and my own scent.