the skin of a poet

they, hanging from the ceiling
dangling over her disregard
glowing blurred happiness
from interpreting her attention
whilst facing the sun
instead of gutting a rodent

she, engraving disease onto her skin
two syllables for everyday of her existence
her distortion was eternal
but the pain would last longer
than the humiliation

they, growing blistered and uncertain
at her self-inflicted incisions
asking questions on pain
and receiving burst of ignorance
and snorts of laughter
because she was mutilated
but she knew nothing
nothing at all