I found my body parts at the
bottom of an editor’s bin
loose rinds of the lips
my mother gave me
a yanked tooth
the bridge of my brow
wilted laugh lines
shredded coils of hair
the scrunched petals of my nose
fistfuls of plump
shades of my skin
seeping out of the sides
until there was light, so much light
and I think:
this is an angelic death, isn’t it?
a slow smother
an obsessive throttle
a constant murder