Two days before I bleed I hate
Myself. Blame it on molecular
Shift or shedding. Shrug
Away a layer. Cream and
Calico, my body separated
Coffee. Slow trudge of
Buttered dawn slipping
From the ghost-lipped
Mouth of the mountains. Stain
In the sky like a blood veil. Or
That could be my own drowning
Eyes. Always seeing red. Rage
Like rust, eating. I want another word
For decay, for the thing the body does
To itself. I let myself rot
From the inside first, languishing
In all its agitation. Simply dying
To escape from every cavity.
⁂
Danielle Susi is the author of the chapbook The Month in Which We Are Born (dancing girl press, 2015). Her writing has appeared in Knee-Jerk Magazine, Hobart, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. Her full-length manuscript A River Always Ends at a Mouth, has been selected as a semi-finalist for both the Lexi Rudnitsky First Book Prize at Persea Books and the Hudson Prize at Black Lawrence Press. She received her MFA in writing from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She currently lives and works in Utah.